LIBRARY 

ifMtfEfisirroF 

DAUFOftWA 

SAN  DIEGO 


. :_4  ^ 

f"9  r   N 

y^- 

A 


CROWN     GEMS 
OF      FRANCE 


EDITED      BY 

EDMUND    GOSSE,  L.L.D 


Illuitrated  with 

PHOTOGRAVURE    PORTRAITS 

and 

TEXT   PORTRAITS 

with  Nat 1 1  tj 

OCTAVE       UZAtfNE 


TIO( 


RENEE 
MAU  PERI  N 


Translated  from  the  French  of 
JULES  ANDlEDMOND  DE  GONCOURT 


By 
ALYS   HALLARD 


With  a  Critical  Introduction  by 
JAMES  FITZMAUR1CE-KELLY 


ILLUSTRATED 


THE  ST.  HUBERT  GUILD 
AKRON,  OHIO,  U.S.A. 


COPYRIGHT,  1902, 
BY  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


EDMOND  AND  JULES  DE  GONCOURT 


THE  partnership  of  Edmond  and  Jules  de  Gon- 
court  is  probably  the  most  curious  and  perfect  ex- 
ample of  collaboration  recorded  in  literary  history. 
The  brothers  worked  together  for  twenty-two  years, 
and  the  amalgam  of  their  diverse  talents  was  so  com- 
plete that,  were  it  not  for  the  information  given  by 
the  survivor,  it  would  be  difficult  to  guess  what  each 
brought  to  the  work  which  bears  their  names.  Even 
in  the  light  of  these  confidences,  it  is  no  easy  matter 
to  attempt  to  separate  or  disengage  their  literary 
personalities.  The  two  are  practically  one.  Jamais 
ame  pareille  n'a  ete  mise  en  deux  corps.  This  testimony 
is  their  own,  and  their  testimony  is  true.  The  result 
is  the  more  perplexing  when  we  remember  that  these 
two  brothers  were,  so  to  say,  men  of  different  races. 
The  elder  was  a  German  from  Lorraine,  the  younger 
was  an  inveterate  Latin  Parisian:  "  the  most  abso- 
lute difference  of  temperaments,  tastes,  and  charac- 
ters— and  absolutely  the  same  ideas,  the  same  per- 

v  Vol.  ia— A 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

sonal  likes  and  dislikes,  the  same  intellectual  vision." 
There  may  be,  as  there  probably  always  will  be,  two 
opinions  as  to  the  value  of  their  writings;  there  can 
be  no  difference  of  view  concerning  their  intense  de- 
votion to  literature,  their  unhesitating  rejection  of 
all  that  might  distract  them  from  their  vocation. 
They  spent  a  small  fortune  in  collecting  materials  for 
works  that  were  not  to  find  two  hundred  readers; 
they  passed  months,  and  more  months,  in  tedious 
researches  the  results  of  which  were  condensed  into 
a  single  page;  they  resigned  most  of  life's  pleasures 
and  all  its  joys  to  dedicate  themselves  totally  to  the 
office  of  their  election.  So  they  lived — toiling,  en- 
deavouring, undismayed,  confident  in  their  integrity 
and  genius,  unrewarded  by  one  accepted  triumph,  un- 
cheered  by  a  single  frank  success  or  even  by  any 
considerable  recognition.  The  younger  Goncourt 
died  of  his  failure  before  he  was  forty;  the  elder 
underwent  almost  the  same  monotony  of  defeat  dur- 
ing nearly  thirty  years  of  life  that  remained  to  him. 
But  both  continued  undaunted,  and,  if  we  consider 
what  manner  of  men  they  were  and  how  dear  fame 
was  to  them,  the  constancy  of  their  ambition  becomes 
all  the  more  admirable. 

Despising,  or  affecting  to  despise,  the  general  ver- 
dict of  their  contemporaries,  they  loved  to  declare 
that  they  wrote  for  their  own  personal  pleasure,  for 
an  audience  of  a  dozen  friends,  or  for  the  delight  of 

vi 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Gon court 

a  distant  posterity;  and,  when  the  absence  of  all  ap- 
preciation momentarily  weighed  them  down,  they 
vainly  imagined  that  the  acquisition  of  a  new  bibelot 
consoled  them.  No  doubt  the  passion  of  the  col- 
lector was  strong  in  them:  so  strong  that  Edmond 
half  forgot  his  grief  for  his  brother  and  his  terror  of 
the  Commune  in  the  pursuit  of  first  editions:  so  strong 
that  the  chances  of  a  Prussian  bomb  shattering  his 
storehouse  of  treasures — the  Maison  d'un  artiste — at 
Auteuil  saddened  him  more  than  the  dismemberment 
of  France.  But,  even  so,  the  idea  that  the  Goncourts 
could  in  any  circumstances  subordinate  literature  to 
any  other  interest  was  the  merest  illusion.  Nothing 
in  the  world  pleased  them  half  so  well  as  the  sight  of 
their  own  words  in  print.  The  arrival  of  a  set  of  proof- 
sheets  on  the  ist  of  January  was  to  them  the  best  pos- 
sible augury  for  the  new  year;  the  sight  of  their  names 
on  the  placards  outside  the  theatres  and  the  booksell- 
ers'-shops  enraptured  them;  and  Edmond,  then  well 
on  in  years,  confesses  that  he  thrice  stole  downstairs, 
half-clad,  in  the  March  dawn,  to  make  sure  that  the 
opening  chapters  of  Cherie  were  really  inserted  in 
the  Gaulois.  These  were  their  few  rewards,  their  only 
victories.  They  were  fain  to  be  content  with  such 
small  things — la  petite  monnaie  de  la  gloire.  Still  they 
were  persuaded  that  time  was  on  their  side,  and,  as- 
sured as  they  were  of  their  literary  immortality,  they 
chafed  at  the  suggestion  that  the  most  splendid  re- 

vii 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

nown  must  grow  dim  within  a  hundred  thousand 
years.  Was  so  poor  a  laurel  worth  the  struggle? 
This  was  the  whole  extent  of  their  misgiving. 

Baffled  at  every  point,  the  Goncourts  were  un- 
able to  account  for  the  unbroken  series  of  disasters 
which  befell  them;  yet  the  explanation  is  not  far  to 
seek.  For  one  thing,  they  attempted  so  much,  so 
continuously,  in  so  many  directions,  and  in  such 
quick  succession,  that  their  very  versatility  and 
diligence  laid  them  under  suspicion.  They  were 
not  content  to  be  historians,  or  philosophers,  or 
novelists,  or  dramatists,  or  art  critics:  they  would 
be  all  and  each  of  these  at  once.  In  every  branch 
of  intellectual  effort  they  asserted  their  claims  to 
be  regarded  as  innovators,  and  therefore  as  lead- 
ers. Within  a  month  they  published  Germinie  La- 
certeux  and  an  elaborate  study  on  Fragonard;  and, 
while  they  plumed  themselves  (as  they  very  well 
might)  on  their  feat,  the  average  intelligent  reader 
joined  with  the  average  intelligent  critic  in  conclud- 
ing that  such  various  accomplishment  must  needs 
be  superficial.  It  was  not  credible  that  one  and  the 
same  pair — par  nobile  fratrum — could  be  not  only 
close  observers  of  contemporary  life,  but  also  author- 
ities on  Watteau  and  Outamaro,  on  Marie  Antoi- 
nette and  Mile.  Clairon.  To  admit  this  would  be  to 
emphasize  the  limitations  of  all  other  men  of  letters. 
Again,  the  uncanny  element  of  chance  which  enters 

viii 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

into  every  enterprise  was  constantly  hostile  to  the 
Goncourts.  They  not  only  published  incessantly: 
they  somehow  contrived  to  publish  at  inopportune 
moments — at  times  when  the  public  interest  was 
turned  from  letters  to  politics.  Their  first  novel  ap- 
peared on  the  very  day  of  Napoleon  Ill's  Coup  detat, 
and  their  publisher  even  refused  to  advertise  the  book 
lest  the  new  authorities  should  see  in  the  title  of  En 
18 —  a  covert  allusion  to  the  i8th  Brumaire.  It  would 
have  been  a  pleasing  stroke  of  irony  had  the  Ministry 
of  the  1 6th  of  May  been  supported  by  the  country 
as  it  was  supported  by  Edmond  de  Goncourt,  for 
that  Ministry  intended  to  prosecute  him  as  the  author 
of  La  Fille  Elisa.  La  Fanstin  was  issued  on  the  morn- 
ing of  Gambetta's  downfall;  and  the  seventh  volume 
of  the  Journal  des  Goncourt  had  barely  been  published 
a  few  hours  when  the  news  of  Carnot's  assassination 
reached  Paris.  Lastly,  the  personal  qualities  of  the 
brothers — their  ostentation  of  independence,  their 
attitude  of  supercilious  superiority,  and,  most  of  all, 
their  fatal  gift  of  irony — raised  up  innumerable  ene- 
mies and  alienated  both  actual  and  possible  friends. 
They  gave  no  quarter  and  they  received  none.  All 
this  is  extremely  human  and  natural;  but  the  Gon- 
courts, being  nervous  invalids  as  well  as  born  fight- 
ers, suffered  acutely  from  what  they  regarded  as  the 
universal  disloyalty  of  their  comrades. 

They  could  not  realize  that  their  writings  con- 
ix 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

tained  much  to  displease  men  of  all  parties,  and,  living 
at  war  with  literary  society,  they  sullenly  cultivated 
their  morbid  sensibility.  The  simplest  trifle  stung 
them  into  frenzies  of  inconsistency  and  hallucination. 
To-day  they  denounced  the  liberty  of  the  press;  to- 
morrow they  raged  at  finding  themselves  the  victims 
of  a  Government  prosecution.  Withal  their  ferocious 
wit,  there  was  not  a  ray  of  sunshine  in  their  humour, 
and,  instead  of  smiling  at  the  discomfiture  of  a  dull 
official,  they  brooded  till  their  imaginations  magnified 
these  petty  police-court  proceedings  into  the  tragedy 
of  a  supreme  martyrdom.  Years  afterward  they  con- 
tinually return  to  the  subject,  noting,  with  exasper- 
ated complacency  that  the  only  four  men  in  France 
who  were  seriously  concerned  with  letters  and  art- 
Baudelaire,  Flaubert,  and  themselves — had  been 
dragged  before  the  courts;  and  they  ended  by.  con- 
sidering their  little  lawsuit  as  one  of  the  historic  state 
trials  of  the  world.  Henceforth,  in  every  personal 
matter — and  their  art  was  intensely  personal — they 
lost  all  sense  of  proportion,  believing  that  there  was  a 
vast  Semitic  plot  to  stifle  Manette  Salomon  and  that 
the  President  had  brought  pressure  on  the  censor 
to  forbid  an  adaptation  of  one  of  their  novels  being 
put  upon  the  boards.  Monarchy,  Empire,  Republic, 
Right,  Centre,  Left — no  shade  of  political  thought, 
no  public  man,  no  legislative  measure,  ever  chanced 
to  please  them.  They  sought  for  the  causes  of  their 

x 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

failure  in  others:  it  never  occurred  to  them  that  the 
fault  lay  in  themselves.  Their  minds  were  twin  whirl- 
pools of  chaotic  opinions.  Revolutionaries  in  arts  and 
letters  as  they  claimed  to  be,  they  detested  novelties 
in  religion,  politics,  medicine,  science,  abstract  specu- 
lation. It  never  struck  them  that  it  was  incongruous, 
not  to  say  absurd,  to  claim  complete  liberty  for  them- 
selves and  to  denounce  ministers  for  attempting  to 
extend  the  far  more  restricted  liberty  of  others.  And 
as  with  the  ordering  of  their  lives,  so  with  their  art 
and  all  that  touched  it.  Unable  to  conciliate  or  to 
compromise,  they  were  conspicuously  successful  in 
stimulating  the  general  prejudice  against  themselves. 
They  paraded  their  self-contradictions  with  a  childish 
pride  of  paradox.  In  one  breath  they  deplored  the 
ignorance  of  a  public  too  uncultivated  to  appreciate 
them;  in  another  breath  they  proclaimed  that  every 
government  which  strives  to  diminish  illiteracy  is  dig- 
ging its  own  grave.  Priding  themselves  on  the  thor- 
oughness of  their  own  investigations,  they  belittled 
the  results  of  learning  in  others,  mocked  at  the  super- 
ficial labour  of  the  Benedictines,  ridiculed  the  in- 
artistic surroundings  of  Sainte-Beuve  and  Renan, 
and  protested  that  antiquity  was  nothing  but  an  in- 
ept invention  to  enable  professors  to  earn  their  daily 
bread.  Not  content  with  asserting  the  superiority  of 
Diderot  to  Voltaire,  they  pronounced  the  Abbe  Tru- 
blet  to  be  the  acutest  critic  who  flourished  during 

xi 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

that  eighteenth  century  which  they  had  come  to  con- 
sider as  their  exclusive  property.  Resolute  conserva- 
tives in  theory,  piquing  themselves  on  their  descent, 
their  personal  elegance,  their  tact  and  refinement, 
these  worshippers  of  Marie  Antoinette  admired  the 
talent  shown  by  Hebert  in  his  infamous  Pere  Duchene, 
and  then  went  on  to  lament  the  influence  of  socialism 
on  literature.  They  were  papalini  who  sympathized 
with  Garibaldi;  they  looked  forward  to  a  repetition 
of  '93,  and  almost  welcomed  it  as  a  deliverance  from 
the  respectable  uniformity  of  their  own  time;  they 
trusted  to  the  working  men — masons,  house-painters, 
carpenters,  navvies — to  regenerate  an  effete  civiliza- 
tion and  to  save  society  as  the  barbarians  had  saved 
it  in  earlier  centuries.  Whatever  the  value  of  these 
views,  they  can  scarcely  have  found  favour  among 
those  who  rallied  to  the  Second  Empire  and  who  im- 
agined that  the  Goncourts  were  a  pair  of  firebrands: 
whereas,  in  fact,  they  were  petulant,  impulsive  men 
of  talent,  smarting  under  neglect. 

If  we  were  so  ingenuous  as  to  take  their  state- 
ments seriously,  we  might  refuse  to  admit  their  right 
to  find  any  place  in  French  literature.  For,  though 
it  would  be  easy  to  quote  passages  in  which  they 
contemn  the  cosmopolitan  spirit,  it  would  be  no  less 
easy  to  set  against  these  their  assertions  that  they 
are  ashamed  of  being  French ;  that  they  are  no  more 
French  than  the  Abbe  Galiani,  the  Prince  de  Ligne, 

xii 


Ednlond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

,or  Heine;  that  they  will  renounce  their  nationality, 
settle  in  Holland  or  Belgium,  and  there  found  a  jour- 
nal in  which  they  can  speak  their  minds.  These  are 
wild,  whirling  words:  the  politics  of  literary  men  are 
on  a  level  with  the  literature  of  politicians.  On  their 
own  showing,  it  does  not  appear  that  the  Goncourts 
were  in  any  way  fettered.  The  sum  of  their  achieve- 
ment, as  they  saw  it,  is  recorded  in  a  celebrated  pas- 
sage of  the  preface  to  Cherie:  "  La  recherche  du  vrai  en 
litter ature,  la  resurrection  de  I' art  du  XV II I'  siecle,  la 
victoire  du  japonisme."  These  words  are  the  words  of 
Jules  de  Goncourt,  but  Edmond  makes  them  his  own. 
If  the  brothers  were  entitled  to  claim — as  they  re- 
peatedly claimed — to  be  held  for  the  leaders  of  these 
"  three  great  literary  and  artistic  movements  of  the 
second  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,"  it  is  clear  that 
they  were  justified  in  thinking  that  the  future  must 
reckon  with  them.  It  is  equally  clear  that,  if  their 
title  proves  good,  their  environment  was  much  less 
unfavourable  than  they  assumed  it  to  be. 

The  conclusion  is  that  their  sublime  egotism  dis- 
abled them  from  forming  a  judicial  judgment  on  any 
question  in  which  they  were  personally  concerned. 
They  never  attempted  to  reason,  to  compare,  to  bal- 
ance; their  minds  were  filled  with  the  vapour  of  tu- 
multuous impressions  which  condensed  at  different 
periods  into  dogmas,  and  were  succeeded  by  fresh 
condensations  from  the  same  source.  But,  amid  all 

xiii 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

changes,  their  self-esteem  was  constant.  They  had 
no  hesitation  in  setting  Dunant's  Souvenir  de  Sol- 
ferino  above  the  Iliad',  but  when  Taine  implied  that 
he  was  somewhat  less  interested  in  Madame  Gervaisais 
than  in  the  writings  of  Santa  Teresa,  they  were  star- 
tled at  his  boldness.  And,  to  define  their  position  more 
precisely,  Edmond  confidently  declares  (among  many 
other  strange  sayings)  that  the  fifth  act  of  La  Patrie 
en  Danger  contains  scenes  more  dramatically  poig- 
nant than  anything  in  Shakespeare,  and  that  in  La 
Maison  d'un  Artiste  au  XIX*  Siecle  he  takes  under  his 
control — though  he  candidly  avows  that  none  but 
himself  suspects  it — a  capital  movement  in  the  history 
of  mankind.  These  are  extremely  high  pretensions,  re- 
peatedly renewed  in  one  form  or  another — in  prefaces, 
manifestos,  articles,  letters,  conversation,  and,  above 
all,  in  nine  invaluable  volumes  which  consist  of  ex- 
tracts from  a  diary  covering  a  period  of  over  forty 
years.  This  extraordinary  record  incidentally  em- 
bodies the  rough  sketches  of  the  Goncourts'  finished 
work,  but  its  interest  is  far  wider  and  more  essentially 
characteristic.  Other  men  have  written  confessions, 
memoirs,  reminiscences,  by  the  score:  mostly  books 
composed  long  after  the  events  which  they  relate,  rec- 
ollections revised,  reviewed  in  the  light  of  after  events. 
The  Goncourts  are  perhaps  alone  in  daring  to  un- 
bosom themselves  with  an  absolute  sincerity  of  their 
emotions,  intentions,  aims.  If  they  come  forth  dam- 

xiv 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

aged  from  such  a  trial,  it  is  fair  to  remember  that  the 
test  is  unique,  and  that  no  other  writers  have  ever 
approached  them  in  courage  and  in  what  they  most 
valued — truth:  la  recherche  du  vrai  en  litterature. 

II 

A  most  authoritative  critic,  M.  Brunetiere,  has 
laid  it  down  that  there  is  more  truth,  more  fidelity 
to  the  facts  of  actual  life,  in  any  single  romance  by 
Ponson  du  Terrail  or  by  Gaboriau  than  in  all  the 
works  of  the  Goncourts  put  together,  and  so  long 
as  we  leave  truth  undefined,  this  opinion  may  be  as 
tenable  as  any  other.  But  it  may  be  well  to  observe 
at  the  outset  that  the  creative  work  of  the  Goncourts 
is  not  to  be  condemned  or  praised  en  bloc,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  it  is  not  a  spontaneous,  uniform 
product,  but  the  resultant  of  diverse  forces  varying 
in  direction  and  intensity  from  time  to  time.  They 
themselves  have  recorded  that  there  are  three  dis- 
tinct stages  in  their  intellectual  evolution.  Begin- 
ning, under  the  influence  of  Heine  and  Poe,  with 
purely  imaginative  conceptions,  they  rebounded  to 
the  extremest  point  of  realism  before  determining  on 
the  intermediate  method  of  presenting  realistic  pic- 
tures in  a  poetic  light.  Pure  imagination  in  the  do- 
main of  contemporary  fiction  seemed  to  them  defec- 
tive, inasmuch  as  its  processes  are  austerely  logical, 
while  life  itself  is  compact  of  contradictions;  and  their 

xv 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

first  reaction  from  it  was  entirely  natural,  on  their 
own  principles.  It  remains  to  be  seen  what  sense 
should  be  attached  to  the  formula — la  recherche  du 
vrai  en  litterature — in  which  they  summarized  their 
position  as  regards  their  predecessors. 

Obviously  we  have  to  deal  with  a  question  of  in- 
terpretation. The  Goncourts  did  not — could  not — 
pretend  that  they  were  the  first  to  introduce  truth 
into  literature:  they  merely  professed  to  have  attained 
it  by  a  different  route.  The  innovation  for  which  they 
claimed  credit  is  a  matter  of  method,  of  technique. 
Their  deliberate  purpose  is  to  surprise  us  by  the  fidel- 
ity of  their  studies,  to  captivate  and  convince  us 
by  an  accumulation  of  exact  minutiae:  in  a  word,  to 
prove  that  truth  is  more  interesting  than  fiction.  So 
history  should  be  written,  and  so  they  wrote  it.  First 
and  last,  whatever  form  they  chose,  they  remained 
historians.  Alleging  the  example  set  by  Plutarch  and 
Saint-Simon,  they  make  their  histories  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  a  mine  of  anecdote,  a  pageant  of  pic- 
turesque situations.  State-papers,  blue-books,  minis- 
terial despatches,  are  in  their  view  the  conventional 
means  used  for  hoodwinking  simpletons  and  forward- 
ing the  interests  of  a  triumphant  faction.  The  most 
valuable  historical  material  is,  as  they  believed,  to  be 
sought  in  the  autograph  letter.  They  held  that  the 
secret  of  the  craftiest  intriguer  will  escape  him,  despite 
himself,  in  the  expansion  of  confidential  correspon- 

xvi 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

dence.  The  research  for  such  correspondence  is  to 
be  supplemented  by  the  study  of  sculpture,  paintings, 
engravings,  furniture,  broadsides,  bills — all  of  them 
indispensable  for  the  reconstruction  of  a  past  age  and 
for  the  right  understanding  of  its  psychology.  But 
these  means  are  simply  complementary.  The  chief 
vehicle  of  authentic  truth  is  the  autograph  letter,  and, 
though  they  professed  to  hold  the  historical  novel  in 
abhorrence,  they  applied  their  historical  methods  to 
their  records  of  contemporary  life.  Thus  we  inevi- 
tably arrive  at  the  famous  theory  of  the  document  hu- 
main — a  phrase  received  with  much  derision  when 
first  publicly  used  in  the  preface  to  La  Faustin,  and 
a  theory  conscientiously  adopted  by  many  later  nov- 
elists. And  here,  again,  it  is  important  to  realize  the 
restricted  extent  of  the  authors'  claim. 

The  Goncourts  draw  a  broad,  primary  distinction 
between  ancient  and  modern  literature:  the  first  deals 
mainly  with  generalities,  the  second  with  details. 
They  then  proceed  to  establish  an  analogous  distinc- 
tion between  novels  written  before  and  after  Balzac's 
time,  the  modern  novel  being  based  on  des  documents 
racontes,  ou  releves  d'apres  nature,  precisely  as  formal 
history  is  based  on  des  documents  ecrits.  But  they 
make  no  pretence  of  having  initiated  the  revolution; 
their  share  was  limited  to  continuing  Balzac's  tradi- 
tion, to  enlarging  the  field  of  observation,  and  espe- 
cially to  multiplying  the  instruments  of  research. 

xvii 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

They  declared  that  Gautier  had,  so  to  say,  endowed 
literature  with  vision;  that  Fromentin,  in  describing 
the  silence  of  the  desert,  had  revealed  the  literary 
value  of  hearing;  that  with  Zola,  Loti — and  they 
might  surely  have  added  Maupassant — a  fresh  sense 
was  brought  into  play:  c'est  le  nez  qui  entre  en  scene. 
Their  personal  contribution  was  their  nervous  sensi- 
bility :  les  premiers  nous  avons  ete  les  ecrivains  des  nerfs. 
And  they  were  prouder  of  this  morbid  quality  than 
of  their  talent.  They  were  ever  on  the  watch  for 
fragments  of  talk  caught  up  in  drawing-rooms,  in 
restaurants,  on  omnibuses:  ever  ready  to  take  notes 
at  death-beds,  church,  or  taverns.  Their  life  was  one 
long  pursuit  of  Vimprevu,  le  decousu,  Villogique  du  vrai. 
These  observations  they  transcribed  at  night  while 
the  impression  was  still  acute,  and  these  they  utilized 
more  or  less  deftly  as  they  advanced  towards  what 
they  rightly  thought  to  be  the  goal  of  art:  the  per- 
fect adjustment  of  proportion  between  the  real  and 
the  imagined. 

It  would  seem  that  we  are  now  in  a  position  to 
judge  the  Goncourts  by  their  own  standard.  Le  do- 
sage juste  de  la  litterature  et  de  la  vie — this  formula 
recurs  in  one  shape  or  another  as  a  leading  principle, 
and  it  is  supplemented  by  other  still  more  emphatic 
indications  which  should  serve  to  supply  a  test.  Un- 
happily, with  the  Goncourts  these  indications  are  un- 
systematic and  even  contradictory.  The  elder  brother 

xviii 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

has  naturally  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  the  highest 
gift  of  any  writer  is  his  power  of  creating  on  paper 
real  beings — comme  des  etres  crees  par  Dien,  et  comme 
ayant  eu  une  vraie  vie  sur  la  terre — and  he  is  bold 
enough  to  add  that  Shakespeare  himself  has  failed 
to  create  more  than  two  or  three  personages.  He 
protests  energetically  against  the  academic  virtues, 
and  insists  on  the  importance  of  forming  a  personal 
style  which  shall  reproduce  the  vivacity, 
feverish  activity  of  the  best  talk.  It  is,  then,  all  the 
more  disconcerting  to  learn  from  another  passage  in 
the  Journal  that  the  creation  of  characters  and  the 
discovery  of  an  original  form  of  expression  are  mat- 
ters of  secondary  moment.  The  truth  is  that  if  the 
Goncourts  had,  as  they  believed,  something  new  to 
say,  it  was  inevitable  that  they  should  seek  to  invent 
a  new  manner  of  utterance.  Renan  was  doubtless 
right  in  thinking  that  they  were  absolutely  without 
ideas  on  abstract  subjects;  but  they  were  exquisitely 
susceptible  to  every  shade  and  tone  of  concrete  ob- 
jects, and  the  endeavour  to  convey  their  innumerable 
impressions  taxed  the  resources  of  that  French  vo- 
cabulary on  whose  relative  poverty  they  so  often  in- 
sist. The  reproaches  brought  against  them  in  the 
matter  of  verbal  audacities  by  every  prominent  critic, 
from  Sainte-Beuve  in  one  camp  to  Pontmartin  in  the 
•  other,  are  so  many  testimonies  to  the  fact  that  they 
were  innovators — apporteurs  du  neuf — and  that  their 
B  xix 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

intrepidity  cost  them  dear.  Still  their  boldness  in 
this  respect  has  been  generally  exaggerated.  Setting 
out  as  imitators  of  two  such  different  models  as  Gau- 
tier  and  Jules  Janin,  they  slowly  acquired  an  indi- 
vidual manner — the  manner,  say,  of  Germinie  Lacer- 
ieux  or  Manette  Salomon — but  they  never  attained  the 
formula  which  they  had  conceived  as  final.  It  was 
not  given  to  them  to  realize  their  ambition — to  write 
novels  which  should  not  contain  a  single  bookish  ex- 
pression, plays  which  should  reveal  that  hitherto  un- 
discoverable  quantity — colloquial  speech,  raised  to  the 
level  of  consummate  art.  The  famous  ecriture  artiste 
remained  an  unfulfilled  ideal.  The  expression,  first 
used  in  the  preface  to  Les  Freres  Zemganno,  merely 
foreshadows  a  possible  development  of  style  which 
shall  come  into  being  when  realism  or  naturalism, 
ceasing  to  describe  the  ignoble,  shall  occupy  itself 
with  the  attempt  to  render  refinements,  reticences, 
subtleties,  and  half-tones  of  a  more  elusive  order.  It 
is  an  aspiration,  a  counsel  of  perfection  offered  to  a 
younger  school  by  an  artist  in  experiment,  who  de- 
clares the  quest  to  be  beyond  his  powers.  It  is  noth- 
ing more. 

Leaving  on  one  side  these  questions  of  style  and 
manner,  it  may  safely  be  said  that  in  the  novels  of  the 
Goncourts  the  characters  are  less  memorable,  less  in- 
teresting as  individuals  than  as  illustrations  of  an 
epoch  or  types  of  a  given  social  sphere.  Charles 

xx 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

Demailly,  Madame  Gervaisais,  Manette  Salomon, 
Renee  Mauperin,  Soeur  Philomene,  are  not  so  much 
dramatic  creations  as  figures  around  which  is  consti- 
tuted the  life  of  a  special  milieu — the  world  of  journal- 
ism, of  Catholicism  seen  from  two  opposite  points  of 
view,  of  artists,  of  the  bourgeoisie,  as  the  case  may  be. 
There  are  in  the  best  work  of  the  Goncourts  aston- 
ishingly brilliant  scenes;  there  is  dialogue  vivacious, 
witty,  sparkling,  to  an  extraordinary  degree.  And 
this  dialogue,  as  in  Charles  Demailly,  is  not  only  su- 
premely interesting,  but  intrinsically  true  to  nature. 
It  could  not  well  be  otherwise,  for  the  speeches  as- 
signed to  Masson,  Lamperiere,  Remontville,  Bois- 
roger,  and  Montbaillard  are,  as  often  as  not,  ver- 
batim reports  of  paradoxes  and  epigrams  thrown 
off  a  few  hours  earlier  by  Theophile  Gautier,  Flau- 
bert, Saint-Victor,  Banville,  and  Villemessant.  But 
these  flights,  true  and  well  worth  preserving  as  they 
are,  fail  to  impress  for  the  simple  reason  that  they  are 
mere  exercises  in  bravura  delivered  by  men  much 
less  concerned  with  life  than  with  phrases,  that  they 
are  allotted  to  subordinate  characters,  and  that  they 
rather  serve  to  diminish  than  to  increase  the  interest 
in  the  central  figures.  The  Goncourts  themselves 
are  much  less  absorbed  in  life  than  in  writing  about 
it:  just  as  landscapes  reminded  them  of  pictures,  so 
did  every  other  manifestation  of  existence  present 
itself  as  a  possible  subject  for  artistic  treatment.  They 

xxi 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

had  been  called  the  detectives  of  history;  they  became 
detectives,  inquisitors  in  real  life,  and,  much  as  they 
loathed  the  occupation,  they  never  rested  from  their 
task  of  spying  and  prying  and  "  documentation."  As 
with  Charles  Demailly,  so  with  their  other  books :  each 
character  is  studied  after  nature  with  a  grim,  revolt- 
ing persistence.  Their  aunt,  Mile,  de  Courmont,  is 
the  model  of  Mile,  de  Varandeuil  in  Germinie  Lacer- 
teux;  Germinie  herself  is  drawn  from  their  old  servant 
Rose,  who  had  loved  them,  cheated  them,  blinded 
them  for  half  a  lifetime;  the  Victor  Chevassier  who 
figures  in  Quelques  creatures  de  ce  temps  is  sketched 
from  their  father's  old  political  ally,  Colardez,  at 
Breuvannes;  trie  original  of  the  Abbe  Blampoix  in 
Renee  Mauperin  was  the  Abbe  Caronj  the  painter 
Beaulieu  and  that  strange  Bohemian  Pouthier  are 
both  worked  into  Manette  Salomon.  And  the  novel 
entitled  Madame  Gervaisais  is  an  almost  exact  tran- 
scription or  record  of  the  life  of  the  authors'  aunt, 
Mme.  Nephthalie  de  Courmont:  a  report  so  literal 
that  in  three  hundred  pages  there  are  but  two  trifling 
departures  from  the  strictest  historical  truth! 

Mommsen  himself  has  not  excelled  the  Goncourts 
in  conscientious  "documentation";  and  yet,  for  all 
their  care,  their  personages  do  not  abide  in  the  mem- 
ory as  living  beings.  We  do  not  see  them  as  indi- 
viduals, but  as  types;  and,  strangely  enough,  the  au- 
thors, despite  the  remarkable  skill  with  which  they 

xxii 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

materialize  many  of  their  impressions,  are  content 
to  deliver  their  characters  to  us  as  so  many  illus- 
trations of  a  species.  Thus  Marthe  Mance  in  Charles 
Demailly  is  un  type,  I'incarnation  d'un  age,  de  son  sexe 
et  d'un  role  de  son  temps;  Langibout  is  le  type  pur 
de  I'ancienne  ecole;  Madame  Gervaisais,  too,  is  un 
exemple  et  un  type  of  the  intellectual  bourgeoise  of 
Louis-Philippe's  time;  Madame  Mauperin  is  le  type 
of  the  modern  bourgeoise  mother;  Renee  is  the  type 
of  the  modern  bourgeoise  girl;  the  Bourjots  "repre- 
sent "  wealth;  Denoisel  is  a  Parisian — ou  plutot  c'etait 
le  Parisien.  The  Goncourts,  in  their  endeavour  to  be 
more  precise,  resort  to  odd  combinations  of  conflict- 
ing elements.  Within  some  twenty  pages  Renee 
Mauperin  is  une  melancolique  tintamarresque;  the  ad- 
jectives bourgeoise  and  diabolique  are  used  to  charac- 
terize the  same  thing;  the  Abbe  Blampoix  is  at  once 
"  priest  and  lawyer,  apostle  and  diplomatist,  Fenelon 
and  M.  de  Foy."  And  the  same  types  constantly 
reappear.  The  physician  Monterone  in  Madame  Ger- 
vaisais is  simply  an  Italian  version  of  Denoisel  in 
Renee  Mauperin ;  the  Abbe  Blampoix  has  his  counter- 
part in  Father  Giansanti;  Honorine  is  Germinie,  be- 
fore the  fall;  Nachette  and  Gautruche  might  be 
brothers.  The  procedure,  too,  is  almost  invariable. 
The  antecedents  of  each  personage  are  given  with 
abundant  detail.  We  have  minute  information  as  to 
the  family  history  of  the  Mauperins,  the  Villacourts, 

xxiii 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

Germinie,  Couturat,  and  the  rest;  and  the  mention 
of  Father  Sibilla  involves  a  brief  account  of  the  order 
of  Barefooted  Trinitarians  from  January,  1198,  to  the 
spring  of  1853!  There  is  a  frequent  repetition  of  the 
same  idea  with  scarcely  any  verbal  change:  un  dos 
d 'amateur  in  Renee  Mauperin  and  le  dos  du  cocker  in  Ger- 
minie Lacerteux.  And  the  possibilities  of  the  human 
back  were  evidently  not  exhausted,  for  at  Christmas, 
1882,  Edmond  de  Goncourt  makes  a  careful  note  of 
the  dos  de  jeune  fille  du  peuple. 

It  is  by  no  means  an  accident  that  the  most  fre- 
quent theme  of  the  brothers  is  illness :  the  insanity  of 
Demailly,  the  tortures  of  Germinie,  the  consumption 
of  Madame  Gervaisais,  the  decay  of  Renee  Mauperin, 
the  record  of  pain  in  Sceur  Philomene,  in  Les  Freres 
Zemganno,  and  in  other  works  of  the  Goncourts. 
Emotion  in  less  tragic  circumstances  they  rarely  con- 
vey; and  when  they  attempt  it  they  are  prone  to 
stumble  into  an  unimpressive  sentimentalism.  Their 
strength  lay  in  pure  observation,  not  in  the  philo- 
sophic or  psychological  presentment  of  nature.  For 
their  fine  powers  to  have  full  play,  it  was  necessary 
that  they  should  deal  with  things  seen:  in  other 
words,  that  feeling  should  take  a  concrete  shape. 
Once  this  condition  is  fulfilled,  they  can  focus  their 
own  impressions  and  render  them  with  unsurpassable 
skill.  We  shall  find  in  them  nothing  epic,  nothing  in- 
ventive on  a  grand  scale:  the  transfiguring,  ennobling 

xxiv 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

vision  of  the  greatest  creators  was  denied  them.  But 
they  remain  consummate  masters  in  their  own  re- 
stricted province:  delicate  observers  of  externals,  not- 
ing and  remembering  with  unmatched  exactitude 
every  detail  of  gesture  altitude,  intonation,  and  ex- 
pression. The  description  of  landscape — of  the  Bois 
de  Vincennes  in  Germinie  Lacerteux,  the  Forest  of  Fon- 
tainebleau  in  Manette  Salomon,  or  of  the  Trastevere 
quarter  in  Madame  Gervaisais  —  commonly  affords 
them  an  occasion  for  a  triumph;  but  the  description 
of  prolonged  malady  gives  them  a  still  greater  oppor- 
tunity. Nor  is  this  due  simply  to  the  fact  that  they, 
who  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  enjoy  a  day 
of  perfect  health,  spoke  from  an  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  subject.  Each  landscape  preserves  at  least  its 
abstract  idiosyncrasy;  illness  is  an  essentially  "typ- 
ical "  state  in  which  individual  characteristics  diminish 
till  they  finally  disappear.  And  it  is  especially  in  the 
portraiture  of  types,  rather  than  of  individuals,  that 
the  genius  of  the  Goncourts  excels. 

In  their  own  opinion,  their  initiative  extended  over 
a  vast  field  and  in  all  directions.  They  seriously  main- 
tained that  they  were  the  first  to  introduce  the  poor 
into  French  fiction,  the  first  to  awaken  the  sentiment 
of  pity  for  the  wretched;  they  admitted  the  priority 
of  Dickens,  but  they  apparently  forgot  that  they  had 
likewise  been  anticipated  by  George  Sand — that 
George  Sand  whose  merits  it  took  them  twenty 

XXV 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

years  to  recognise.  They  forgot,  too,  that  compas- 
sion is  precisely  the  quality  in  which  they  were  most 
lacking.  Gavarni  had  killed  the  sentiment  of  pity  in 
them,  and  had  communicated  to  them  his  own  mock- 
ing, sardonic  spirit  of  inhumanity,  his  sinister  delight 
in  every  manifestation  of  cruelty,  baseness,  and  pain. 
In  their  most  candid  moods  they  confessed  that  they 
were  all  brain  and  no  heart,  that  they  were  with- 
out real  affections;  and  their  writings  naturally  suf- 
fer from  this  unsympathetic  attitude.  But  when  every 
deduction  is  made,  it  is  impossible  to  deny  their  im- 
portance and  significance.  For  they  represent  a  dis- 
tinct stage  in  an  organized  movement — the  reaction 
against  romanticism  in  the  novel  and  lyrism  in  the 
theatre.  And  there  is  some  basis  for  their  bold  asser- 
tion that  they  led  the  way  in  every  other  develop- 
ment of  the  modern  French  novel.  They  believed 
that  they  had  founded  the  naturalistic  school  in  Ger- 
minie  Lacerteux,  the  psychological  in  Madame  Ger- 
vaisais,  the  symbolic  in  Les  Freres  Zemganno,  and  the 
satanic  in  La  Faustin.  It  is  unnecessary  to  recognise 
all  these  claims  in  full:  to  discuss  them  at  all,  even  if 
we  deny  them,  is  to  admit  that  the  Goncourts  were 
men  of  striking  intellectual  force,  of  singular  ambi- 
tion, of  exceptionally  rich  and  diverse  gifts  amount- 
ing, at  times,  to  unquestionable  genius.  If  they  were 
unsuccessful  in  their  attempt  to  create  an  entire  race 
of  beings  as  real  as  any  on  the  planet,  their  superla- 

xxvi 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

tive  talent  produced,  in  the  form  of  novels,  invalua- 
ble studies  of  manners  and  customs,  a  brilliant  series 
of  monographs  on  the  social  history  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  And  Daudet  and  M.  Zola,  and 
dozen  others  whom  it  would  be  invidious  to  name, 
may  be  accounted  as  in  some  sort  their  literary  de- 
scendants. 

It  is  not  unnatural  that  Edmond  de  Goncourt 
should  have  ended  by  disliking  the  form  of  the  novel, 
which  he  came  to  regard  as  an  exhausted  convention. 
His  pessimism  was  universal.  Art  was  dying,  litera- 
ture was  perishing  daily.  The  almost  universal  ac- 
ceptance of  Ibsen  and  of  Tolstoi  was  in  itself  a 
convincing  symptom  of  degeneration,  if  the  vogue 
of  the  latter  writer  were  not  indeed  the  result  of 
a  cosmopolitan  plot  against  the  native  realistic 
school.  It  was  some  consolation  to  reflect  that, 
after  all,  there  was  more  "  philosophy "  in  Beau- 
marchais  than  in  Ibsen;  'that  the  name  of  Gon- 
court was  held  in  honour  by  Scandinavians  and 
Slavs.  Yet  it  could  not  be  denied  that,  the  world 
over,  aristocracy  of  every  kind  was  breaking  down. 
To  the  eyes  of  the  surviving  Goncourt  all  the  signs 
of  a  last  great  catastrophe  grew  visible.  Mankind 
was  ill,  half-mad,  and  on  the  road  to  become  com- 
pletely insane.  There  were  countless  indications  of 
intellectual  and  physical  decadence.  Sloping  shoul- 
ders were  disappearing;  the  physique  of  the  peasant 

xxvii 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

was  not  what  it  had  been;  good  food  was  practically 
unattainable;  in  a  hundred  years  a  man  who  had  once 
tasted  genuine  meat  would  be  pointed  out  as  a  curios- 
ity. The  probability  was,  that  within  half  a  century 
there  would  not  be  a  man  of  letters  in  the  world;  the 
reporter,  the  interviewer,  would  have  taken  possession. 
As  it  was,  the  younger  generation  of  readers  no  long- 
er rallied  to  the  Goncourts  as  it  had  rallied  when 
Henriette  Marechal  was  first  replayed.  The  weary  old 
man  buried  himself  in  memoirs,  biographies,  books  of 
travel;  then  turned  to  his  first  loves — to  Poe  and 
Heine — and  found  that  "  we  are  all  commercial  trav- 
ellers compared  to  them."  But,  threatened  as  he  was 
by  blindness,  despairing  as  were  his  presentiments  of 
what  the  future  concealed,  his  confidence  in  the  dura- 
bility of  his  fame  and  his  brother's  fame  was  undimmed. 
There  would  always  be  the  select  few  interested  in 
two  such  examples  of  the  litterateur  bien  ne.  There 
would  always  be  the  official  historians  of  literature 
to  take  account  of  them  as  new,  perplexing,  elemental 
forces.  There  would  always  be  the  curious  who  must 
turn  to  the  Goncourts  for  positive  information.  "  Our 
romances,"  as  the  brothers  had  noted  forty  years  ear- 
lier, "  will  supply  the  greatest  number  of  facts  and 
absolute  truths  to  the  moral  history  of  this  century." 
And  Edmond  de  Goncourt  clung  to  the  belief,  ending, 
happily  and  characteristically  enough,  by  conceiving 
himself  and  his  brother  to  be  "  types,"  and  the  best 

xxviii 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 

of  all  types:  le  type  de  I'honnete  homme  litteraire,  du 
perseverant  dans  ses  convictions,  et  du  contempteur  de 
I 'argent.  The  praise  is  deserved.  It  is  a  distinction 
of  which  greater  men  might  well  be  proud. 

\     JAMES  FITZMAURICE-KELLY. 


XXIX 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 


The  Goncourts  were  the  sons  of  a  cavalry  officer, 
commander  of  a  squadron  in  the  Imperial  army.  Eo- 
MOND  was  born  at  Nancy,  on  the  26th  of  May,  1822,  and 
his  brother  JULES  in  Paris,  on  the  ifth  of  December, 
1830.  They  were  the  grandsons  of  the  deputy  of  the 
National  Assembly  of  1789,  Huot  de  Goncourt,  A  very 
close  friendship  united  the  brothers  from  their  earliest 
youth,  but  it  appears  to  have  been  in  the  younger  that 
the  irresistible  tendency  to  literature  first  displayed  itself. 
They  were  originally  drawn  almost  exclusively  to  the  study 
*f  the  history  of  art.  They  devoted  themselves  particu- 
larly to  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  in  their 
earliest  important  volumes,  "La  Revolution  dans  les 
Mceurs"  (1854),  "  Histoire  de  la  Societe  Franqaise  pen- 
dant la  Revolution"  (1854),  and  "Pendant  le  Direc- 
toire"  (1855),  they  invented  a  new  thing,  the  evolution 
of  the  history  of  an  age  from  the  objects  and  articles  of 
its  social  existence.  They  were  encouraged  to  continue 
these  studies  further,  more  definitely  concentrating  their 
observations  around  individuals,  and  some  very  curious 
monographs — made  up,  as  some  one  said,  of  the  detritus 
of  history — were  the  result,  "  Une  Voiture  de  Masques," 
1856;  "Les  Actrices  (Armande),"  1856;  "Sophie  Ar- 

xxxi 


Biographical  Note 


nauld,"  1857.  The  most  ingenious  efforts  of  the  broth- 
ers in  this  direction  were,  however,  concentrated  upon 
"  Portraits  Intimes  du  XVIIIe  Siecle,"  1857-58,  and  upon 
the  "  Histoire  de  Marie  Antoinette,"  1858. 

Towards  1860  the  Goncourts  closed  their  exclusively 
historical  work,  and  transferred  their  minute  observation 
and  excessively  meticulous  treatment  of  small  aspects  of 
life  to  realistic  romance.  Their  first  novel,  "  Les  Hommes 
de  Lettres,"  1860  (now  known  as  "  Charles  Demailly  "), 
showed  some  lack  of  ease  in  using  the  new  medium,  but 
it  was  followed  by  "  Sceur  Philomene,"  1861,  one  of  the 
most  finished  of  their  fictions,  and  this  by  "  Renee  Mau- 
perin,"  1864;  "  Germinie  Lacerteux,"  1864;  "  Manette 
Salomon,"  1867 ;  and  "  Madame  Gervaisais,"  1869. 
Meanwhile,  numerous  studies  of  the  art  of  the  bibelot 
appeared  under  the  name  of  the  two  Goncourts,  and  in 
particular  their  great  work  on  "  L'Art  du  XVIII'  Siecle," 
which  began  to  be  published  in  1859,  although  not  com- 
pleted until  1882.  All  this  while,  moreover,  they  were  se- 
cretly composing  their  splenetic  "  Journal."  On  the  20th 
of  June,  1870,  the  fair  companionship  was  broken  by  the 
death  of  Jules  de  Goncourt,  and  for  some  years  Edmond 
did  no  more  than  complete  and  publish  certain  artistic 
works  which  had  been  left  unfinished.  Of  these,  the  most 
remarkable  were,  a  monograph  on  the  life  and  work  of 
Gavarni,  1873;  a  compilation  called  "  L' Amour  au  XVIIIe 
Siecle,"  1875;  studies  of  the  Du  Barry,  the  Pompadour, 
and  the  Duchess  of  Chateauroux,  1878-79  (these  three 
afterward  united  in  one  volume  as  "Les  Maltresses  de 
Louis  XV  ");  and  notes  of  a  tour  in  Italy,  1894. 

xxxii 


Biographical  Note 


Edmond  de  Goncourt,  however,  after  several  years  of 
silence,  returned  alone  to  the  composition  of  prose  ro- 
mance. He  published  in  1877  "  La  Fille  Elisa,"  an  ultra- 
realistic  tragedy  of  low  life.  In  1878,  in  the  very  curious 
story  of  two  mountebanks,  "  Les  Freres  Zenganno,"  he 
betrayed  the  secret  of  his  own  perennial  sorrow.  Two 
more  novels,  "  La  Faustin,"  1882,  and  "  Cherie,"  the 
pathetic  portrait  of  a  spoiled  child,  close  the  series  of  his 
works  in  fiction.  He  returned  to  a  close  examination  of 
the  history  of  art,  and  published  catalogues  raisonnes  of 
the  entire  work  of  Watteau  (1875}  and  °f  Prud'hon 
(1876).  His  latest  interests  were  centred  around  the 
classical  Japanese  designers,  and  he  published  elaborate 
monographs  on  Outamaro  (1891)  and  Hokousai  (1896). 
In  1885  he  collected  the  Letters  of  his  brother  Jules,  and 
issued  from  1887  to  1896,  in  nine  volumes,  as  much  as 
has  hitherto  been  published  of  the  celebrated  "Journal 
des  Goncourts." 

Edmond  de  Goncourt  died  while  on  a  visit  to  Alphonse 
Daudet,  at  Champrosay,  the  country-house  of  the  latter, 
on  the  i6th  of  July,  1896.  He  left  his  considerable  for- 
tune, which  included  valuable  collections  of  bibelots,  main- 
ly for  the  purpose  of  endowing  an  Academy  of  Prose 
Literature,  in  opposition  to  the  French  Academy.  In 
spite  of  extreme  hostility  from  the  members  of  his  family, 
and  innumerable  legal  difficulties,  this  "  Academic  des 
Goncourts"  was  formed,  on  what  seems  to  be  a  secure 
basis,  in  1901,  and  M.  Joris  Karl  Huysmans  was  elected 
its  first  president. 

E.  G. 
xxxiii 


CONTENTS 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt      .     .  v-xxix 

James  Fitzmaurice-  Kelly 

Lives  of  Edmond  and  Jules  de  Gon- 

court    .........    xxxi-xxxiii 

Edmund  Gone 


Renee  Mauperin 


I-349 


The  Portraits  of  Edmond  and  Jules  de 
Goncourt   ...     ..... 

Octave  Uzanne 


XXXV 


RENEE   MAUPERIN 


Vol.  s»-B 


RENEE   MAUPERIN 


"  You  don't  care  about  society,  then,  mademoi- 
selle? " 

"  You  won't  tell  any  one,  will  you? — but  I  always 
feel  as  though  I've  swallowed  my  tongue  when  I  go 
out.  That's  the  effect  society  has  on  me.  Perhaps 
it  is  that  I've  had  no  luck.  The  young  men  I  have 
met  are  all  very  serious,  they  are  my  brother's  friends 
— quotation  young  men,  I  call  them.  As  to  the  girls, 
one  can  only  talk  to  them  about  the  last  sermon  they 
have  heard,  the  last  piece  of  music  they  have  learned, 
or  their  last  new  dress.  Conversation  with  my  con- 
temporaries is  somewhat  restricted." 

"  And  you  live  in  the  country  all  the  year  round, 
do  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  but  we  are  so  near  to  Paris.  Is  the  piece 
good  they  have  just  been  playing  at  the  Opera  Co- 
mique?  Have  you  seen  it?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  charming — the  music  is  very  fine.  All 
Paris  was  at  the  first  night — I  never  go  to  the  thea- 
tre except  on  first  nights." 

3 


Renee  Mauperin 

"  Just  fancy,  they  never  take  me  to  any  theatre 
except  the  Opera  Comique  and  the  Francois,  and 
only  to  the  Frangais  when  there  is  a  classical  piece  on. 
I  think  they  are  terribly  dull,  classical  pieces.  Only  to 
think  that  they  won't  let  me  go  to  the  Palais  Royal! 
I  read  the  pieces  though.  I  spent  a  long  time  learn- 
ing '  The  Mountebanks '  by  heart.  You  are  very 
lucky,  for  you  can  go  anywhere.  The  other  evening 
my  sister  and  my  brother-in-law  had  a  great  discus- 
sion about  the  Opera  Ball.  Is  it  true  that  it  is  quite 
impossible  to  go  to  it?  " 

"Impossible?    Well " 

"  I  mean — for  instance,  if  you  were  married,  would 
you  take  your  wife,  just  once,  to  see  it?  " 

"  If  I  were  married  I  would  not  even  take " 

"  Your  mother-in-law.  Is  that  what  you  were 
going  to  say?  Is  it  so  dreadful — really?  " 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,  the  company  is " 

"Variegated?  I  know  what  that's  like.  But 
then  it's  the  same  everywhere.  Every  one  goes  to  the 
Marche  and  the  company  is  mixed  enough  there. 
One  sees  ladies,  who  are  rather  queer,  drinking 
champagne  in  their  carriages.  Then,  too,  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne!  How  dull  it  is  to  be  a  young  person, 
don't  you  think  so?  " 

"What  an  idea!  Why  should  it  be?  On  the 
contrary,  it  seems  to  me " 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  in  my  place.  You  would 
4 


Renee  Mauperin 


soon  find  out  what  a  bore  it  is  to  be  always  proper. 
We  are  allowed  to  dance,  but  do  you  imagine  that  we 
can  talk  to  our  partner?  We  may  say  '  Yes,'  No,' 
'  No,'  'Yes,'  and  that's  all!  We  must  always  keep 
to  monosyllables,  as  that  is  considered  proper.  You 
see  how  delightful  our  existence  is.  And  for  every- 
thing it  is  just  the  same.  If  we  want  to  be  very  proper 
we  have  to  act  like  simpletons;  and  for  my  part  I  can- 
not do  it.  Then  we  are  supposed  to  stop  and  prattle 
to  persons  of  our  own  sex.  And  if  we  go  off  and  leave 
them  and  are  seen  talking  to  men  instead — oh,  well, 
I've  had  lectures  enough  from  mamma  about  that! 
Reading  is  another  thing  that  is  not  at  all  proper.  Until 
two  years  ago  I  was  not  allowed  to  read  the  serials  in 
the  newspaper,  and  now  I  have  to  skip  the  crimes  in 
the  news  of  the  day,  as  they  'are  not  quite  proper. 

"  Then,  too,  with  the  accomplishments  we  are  al- 
lowed to  learn,  we  must  not  go  beyond  a  certain  aver- 
age. We  may  learn  duets  and  pencil  drawing,  but  if 
we  want  anything  more,  why,  it's  affectation  on  our 
part.  I  go  in  for  oil-painting,  for  instance,  and  that 
is  the  despair  of  my  family.  I  ought  only  to  paint 
roses  and  in  water-colours.  There's  quite  a  current 
here,  though,  isn't  there?  I  can  scarcely  stand." 

This  was  said  in  an  arm  of  the  Seine  just  between 
Briche  and  the  lie  Saint  Denis.  The  girl  and  the 
young  man  who  were  conversing  were  in  the  water. 
They  had  been  swimming  until  they  were  tired,  and 

5 


Renee  Mauperin 


now,  carried  along  by  the  current,  they  had  caught 
hold  of  a  rope  which  was  fastened  to  one  of  the  large 
boats  stationed  along  the  banks  of  the  island.  The 
force  of  the  water  rocked  them  both  gently  at  the  end 
of  the  tight,  quivering  rope.  They  kept  sinking  and 
then  rising  again.  The  water  was  beating  against 
the  young  girl's  breast;  it  filled  out  her  woollen 
bathing-dress  right  up  to  the  neck,  while  from 
behind  little  waves  kept  dashing  over  her  which  a 
moment  later  were  nothing  but  dewdrops  hanging 
from  her  ears. 

She  was  rather  higher  up  than  the  young  man  and 
had  her  arms  out  of  the  water,  her  wrists  turned  round 
in  order  to  hold  the  rope  more  firmly,  and  her  back 
against  the  black  wood  of  the  boat.  Instinctively  she 
kept  drawing  back  as  the  young  man,  swayed  by  the 
strong  current,  approached  her.  Her  whole  attitude, 
as  she  shrank  back,  suspended  from  the  rope,  remind- 
ed one  of  those  sea  goddesses  which  sculptors  carve 
upon  galleys.  A  slight  tremor,  caused  partly  by  the 
cold  and  partly  by  the  movement  of  the  river,  gave 
her  something  of  the  undulation  of  the  water. 

"  Ah,  now  this,  for  instance,"  she  continued,  "  can- 
not be  at  all  proper — to  be  swimming  here  with  you. 
If  we  were  at  the  seaside  it  would  be  quite  different. 
We  should  have  just  the  same  bathing  costumes  as 
these,  and  we  should  come  out  of  a  bathing-van  just 
as  we  have  come  out  of  the  house.  We  should  have 

6 


Renee  Mauperin 


walked  across  the  beach  just  as  we  have  walked  along 
the  river  bank,  and  we  should  be  in  the  water  to  the 
same  depth,  absolutely  like  this.  The  waves  would 
roll  us  about  as  this  current  does,  but  it  would  not 
be  the  same  thing  at  all;  simply  because  the  Seine 
water  is  not  proper!  Oh,  dear!  I'm  getting  so  hun- 
gry— are  you?  " 

"  Well,  I  fancy  I  shall  do  justice  to  dinner." 

"Ah!    I  warn  you  that  I  eat." 

"  Really,  mademoiselle?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  nothing  poetical  about  me  at  meal- 
times. If  you  imagine  that  I  have  no  appetite  you  are 
quite  mistaken.  You  are  in  the  same  club  as  my 
brother-in-law,  are  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  in  M.  Davarande's  club." 

"  Are  there  many  married  men  in  it?  " 

"  Yes,  a  great  many." 

"How  odd!  I  cannot  understand  why  a  man 
marries.  If  I  had  been  a  man  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  should  never  have  thought  of  marrying." 

"  Fortunately  you  are  a  woman." 

"  Ah,  yes,  that's  another  of  our  misfortunes,  we 
women  cannot  stay  unmarried.  But  will  you  tell  me 
why  a  man  joins  a  club  when  he  is  married?  " 

"  Oh,  one  has  to  be  in  a  club — especially  in  Paris. 
Every  man  of  any  standing — if  only  for  the  sake  of 
going  in  there  for  a  smoke." 

"  What !  do  you  mean  to  say  that  there  are  any 
7 


Ren£e  Mauperin 

wives  nowadays  without  smoking-rooms?  Why,  I 
would  allow — yes,  I  would  allow  a  halfpenny  pipe!  " 

"  Have  you  any  neighbours?  " 

"  Oh,  we  don't  visit  much.  There  are  the  Bour- 
jots  at  Sannois,  we  go  there  sometimes." 

"Ah,  the  Bourjots!  But,  here,  there  cannot  be 
any  one  to  visit." 

"  Oh,  there's  the  cure.  Ha!  ha!  the  first  time 
he  dined  with  us  he  drank  the  water  in  his  finger-bowl! 
Oh,  I  ought  not  to  tell  you  that,  it's  too  bad  of  me 
— and  he's  so  kind.  He's  always  bringing  me  flow- 
ers." 

"  You  ride,  don't  you,  mademoiselle?  That  must 
be  a  delightful  recreation  for  you." 

"  Yes,  I  love  riding.  It  is  my  one  pleasure.  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  could  not  do  without  that.  What 
I  like  above  everything  is  hunting.  I  was  brought  up 
to  that  in  the  part  of  the  world  where  papa  used  to  live. 
I'm  desperately  fond  of  it.  I  was  seven  hours  one  day 
in  my  saddle  without  dismounting." 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  it  is — I  go  hunting  every 
year  in  the  Perche  with  M.  de  Beaulieu's  hounds. 
You've  heard  of  his  pack,  perhaps;  he  had  them  over 
from  England.  Last  year  we  had  three  splendid  runs. 
By-the-bye,  you  have  the  Chantilly  meets  near  here." 

"  Yes,  I  go  with  papa,  and  we  never  miss  one. 
When  we  were  all  together  at  the  last  meet  there  were 
quite  forty  horses,  and  you  know  how  it  excites  them 

8 


Renee  Mauperin 

to  be  together.  We  started  off  at  a  gallop,  and  you 
can  imagine  how  delightful  it  was.  It  was  the  day 
we  had  such  a  magnificent  sunset  in  the  pool.  Oh, 
the  fresh  air,  and  the  wind  blowing  through  my  hair, 
and  the  dogs  and  the  bugles  and  the  trees  flying 
along  before  you — it  makes  you  feel  quite  intoxi- 
cated! At  such  moments  I'm  so  brave,  oh,  so  brave!  " 

"  Only  at  such  moments,  mademoiselle?  " 

"  Well — yes — only  on  horseback.  On  foot,  I 
own,  I  am  very  frightened  at  night;  then,  too,  I  don't 
like  thunder  at  all — and — well,  I'm  very  delighted 
that  we  shall  be  three  persons  short  for  dinner  this 
evening." 

"  But  why,  mademoiselle?  " 

"We  should  have  been  thirteen!  I  should  have 
done  the  meanest  things  for  the  sake  of  getting  a 
fourteenth — as  you  would  have  seen.  Ah,  here  comes 
my  brother  with  Denoisel;  they'll  bring  us  the  boat. 
Do  look  how  beautiful  it  all  is  from  here,  just  at  this 
time!  " 

She  glanced  round,  as  she  spoke,  at  the  Seine,  the 
river  banks  on  each  side,  and  the  sky.  Small  clouds 
were  sporting  and  rolling  along  in  the  horizon.  They 
were  violet,  gray,  and  silvery,  just  tipped  with  flashes 
of  white,  which  looked  like  the  foam  of  the  sea  touch- 
ing the  lower  part  of  the  sky. 

Above  them  rose  the  heavens  infinite  and  blue, 
profound  and  clear,  magnificent  and  just  turning  paler 

9 


Renee  Mauperin 

as  they  do  at  the  hour  when  the  stars  are  beginning 
to  kindle  behind  the  daylight.  Higher  up  than  all 
hung  two  or  three  clouds  stretching  over  the  land- 
scape, heavy-looking  and  motionless. 

An  immense  light  fell  over  the  water,  lying  dor- 
mant here,  flashing  there,  making  the  silvery  streaks 
in  the  shadow  of  the  boats  tremble,  touching  up  a 
mast  or  a  rudder,  or  resting  on  the  orange-coloured 
handkerchief  or  pink  jacket  of  a  washerwoman.  The 
country,  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  the  suburbs  all 
met  together  on  both  sides  of  the  river.  There  were 
rows  of  poplar  trees  to  be  seen  between  the  houses, 
which  were  few  and  far  between,  as  at  the  extreme 
limit  of  a  town. 

Then  there  were  small,  tumble-down  cottages,  in- 
closures  planked  round,  gardens,  green  shutters,  wine- 
trade  signs  painted  in  red  letters,  acacia  trees  in  front 
of  the  doors,  old  summer  arbors  giving  way  on  one 
side,  bits  of  walls  dazzlingly  white,  then  some  straight 
rows  of  manufactories,  brick  buildings  with  tile  and 
zinc-covered  roofs,  and  factory  bells.  Smoke  from 
the  various  workshops  mounted  straight  upward  and 
the  shadow  of  it  fell  in  the  water  like  the  shadows  of 
so  many  columns. 

On  one  stack  was  written  "  Tobacco,"  and  on  a 
plaster  faqade  could  be  read  "  Doremus  Labiche, 
Boats  for  Hire." 

Over  a  canal  which  was  blocked  up  with  barges, 
10 


Renee  Mauperin 


a  swing-bridge  lifted  its  two  black  arms  in  the  air. 
Fishermen  were  throwing  and  drawing  in  their  lines. 
The  sound  of  wheels  could  be  heard,  carts  were  com- 
ing and  going.  Towing-ropes  scraped  along  the  road, 
which  was  hard,  rough,  black,  and  dyed  all  colours 
by  the  unloading  of  coal,  mineral  refuse,  and  chem- 
icals. 

From  the  candle,  glucose,  and  fecula  manufactories 
and  sugar-refining  works  which  were  scattered  along 
the  quay,  surrounded  by  patches  of  verdure,  there 
was  a  vague  odour  of  tallow  and  sugar  which  was  car- 
ried away  by  the  emanations  from  the  water  and  the 
smell  of  tar.  The  noise  from  the  foundries  and  the 
whistle  of  steam  engines  kept  breaking  the  silence  of 
the  river. 

It  was  like  Asnieres,  Saardam,  and  Puteaux  com- 
bined, one  of  those  Parisian  landscapes  on  the  banks 
of  the  Seine  such  as  Hervier  paints,  foul  and  yet 
radiant,  wretched  yet  gay,  popular  and  full  of  life, 
where  Nature  peeps  out  here  and  there  between  the 
buildings,  the  work  and  the  commerce,  like  a  blade 
of  grass  held  between  a  man's  fingers. 

"  Isn't  it  beautiful?  " 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  not  in  raptures  about 
it.  It's  beautiful — in  a  certain  degree." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is  beautiful.  I  assure  you  that  it  is 
very  beautiful  indeed.  About  two  years  ago  at  the 
Exhibition  there  was  an  effect  of  this  kind.  I  don't 

ii 


Renee  Mauperin 


remember  the  picture  exactly,  but  it  was  just  this. 
There  are  certain  things  that  I  feel '' 

"  Ah,  you  have  an  artistic  temperament,  madem- 
oiselle." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  with  a  comic 
intonation,  plunging  forthwith  into  the  water.  When 
she  appeared  again  she  began  to  swim  towards  the 
boat  which  was  advancing  to  meet  her.  Her  hair  had 
come  down,  and  was  all  wet  and  floating  behind  her. 
She  shook  it,  sprinkling  the  drops  of  water  all  round. 

Evening  was  drawing  near  and  rosy  streaks  were 
coming  gradually  into  the  sky.  A  breath  was  stirring 
over  the  river,  and  at  the  tops  of  the  trees  the  leaves 
were  quivering.  A  small  windmill,  which  served  for 
a  sign  over  the  door  of  a  tavern,  began  to  turn  round. 

"  Well,  Renee,  how  have  you  enjoyed  the  water?  " 
asked  one  of  the  rowers  as  the  young  girl  reached  the 
steps  placed  at  the  back  of  the  boat. 

"  Oh,  very  much,  thanks,  Denoisel,"  she  answered. 

"  You  are  a  nice  one,"  said  the  other  man,  "  you 
swim  out  so  far — I  began  to  get  uneasy.  And  what 
about  Reverchon?  Ah,  yes,  here  he  is." 


12 


II 

CHARLES  Louis  MAUPERIN  was  born  in  1787. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  barrister  who  was  well  known 
and  highly  respected  throughout  Lorraine  and  Bar- 
rois,  and  at  the  age  of  sixteen  he  entered  the  military 
school  at  Fontainebleau.  He  became  sublieutenant  in 
the  Thirty-fifth  Regiment  of  infantry,  and  afterward, 
as  lieutenant  in  the  same  corps,  he  signalized  himself 
in  Italy  by  a  courage  which  was  proof  against  every- 
thing. At  Pordenone,  although  wounded,  sur- 
rounded by  a  troop  of  the  enemy's  cavalry  and  chal- 
lenged to  lay  down  arms,  he  replied  to  the  challenge 
by  giving  the  command  to  charge  the  enemy,  by 
killing  with  his  own  hand  one  of  the  horsemen  who 
was  threatening  him  and  opening  a  passage  with  his 
men,  until,  overcome  by  numbers  and  wounded  on 
the  head  by  two  more  sword-thrusts,  he  fell  down  cov- 
ered with  blood  and  was  left  on  the  field  for  dead. 

After  being  captain  in  the  Second  Regiment  of  the 
Mediterranean,  he  became  captain  aide-de-camp  to 
General  Roussel  d'Hurbal,  went  through  the  Rus- 
sian campaign  with  him,  and  was  shot  through  the 
right  shoulder  the  day  after  the  battle  of  Moscow. 


Renee  Mauperin 


In  1813,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  he  was  an  offi- 
cer of  the  Legion  of  Honour  and  major  in  the  army. 
He  was  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  commanding  offi- 
cers with  the  most  brilliant  prospects,  when  the  battle 
of  Waterloo  broke  his  sword  for  him  and  dashed  his 
hopes  to  the  ground. 

He  was  put  on  half-pay,  and,  with  Colonel  Sauset 
and  Colonet  Maziau,  he  entered  into  the  Bonapartist 
conspiracy  of  the  Bazar  franqais. 

Condemned  to  death  by  default,  as  a  member  of 
the  managing  committee,  by  the  Chamber  of  Peers, 
constituted  into  a  court  of  justice,  he  was  concealed 
by  his  friends  and  shipped  off  to  America. 

On  the  voyage,  not  knowing  how  to  occupy  his 
active  mind,  he  studied  medicine  with  one  of  his  fel- 
low-passengers who  intended  taking  his  degree  in 
America,  and  on  arriving,  Mauperin  passed  the  neces- 
sary examinations  with  him.  After  spending  two 
years  in  the  United  States,  thanks  to  the  friendship 
and  influence  of  some  of  his  former  comrades,  who 
had  been  taken  again  into  active  service,  he  obtained 
pardon  and  was  allowed  to  return  to  France. 

He  went  back  to  the  little  town  of  Bourmont,  to 
the  old  home  where  his  mother  was  still  living.  This 
mother  was  one  of  those  excellent  old  ladies  so  fre- 
quently met  with  in  the  provincial  France  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  She  was  gay,  witty,  and  fond 
of  her  glass  of  wine.  Her  son  adored  her,  and  on  find- 

14 


Renee  Mauperin 


ing  her  ill  and  under  doctor's  orders  to  avoid  all  stimu- 
lants, he  at  once  gave  up  wine,  liqueurs,  and  coffee 
for  her  sake,  thinking  that  it  would  be  easier  for  her 
to  abstain  if  he  shared  her  privations.  It  was  in  com- 
pliance with  her  request,  and  by  way  of  humouring 
her  sick  fancies,  that  he  married  a  cousin  for  whom 
he  had  no  especial  liking.  His  mother  had  selected 
this  wife  for  her  son  on  account  of  a  joint  claim  to  cer- 
tain land,  fields  which  touched  each  other,  and  all  the 
various  considerations  which  tend  to  unite  families  and 
blend  together  fortunes  in  the  provinces. 

After  the  death  of  his  mother,  the  narrow  life  in 
the  little  town,  which  had  no  further  attraction  for 
him,  seemed  irksome,  and,  as  he  was  not  allowed  to 
dwell  in  Paris,  M.  Mauperin  sold  his  house  and  land 
in  Bourmont,  with  the  exception  of  a  farm  at  Villa- 
court,  and  went  to  live  with  his  young  wife  on  a  large 
estate  which  he  bought  in  the  heart  of  Bassigny,  at 
Morimond.  There  were  the  remains  of  a  large  abbey, 
a  piece  of  land  worthy  of  the  name  which  the  monks 
had  given  it — "  Mort-au-monde  " — a  wild,  magnificent 
bit  of  Nature  with  a  pool  of  some  hundred  acres  or 
more  and  a  forest  of  venerable  oak  trees;  meadows 
with  canals  of  freestone  where  the  spring-tide  flowed 
along  under  bowers  of  trees,  a  veritable  wilderness 
where  the  vegetation  had  been  left  to  itself  since  the 
Revolution ;  springs  babbling  along  in  the  shade ;  wild 
flowers,  cattle-tracks,  the  remains  of  a  garden  and  the 

15 


Renee  Mauperin 


ruins  of  buildings.  Here  and  there  a  few  stones  had 
survived.  The  door  was  still  to  be  seen,  and  the 
benches  were  there  on  which  the  beggars  used  to  sit 
while  taking  their  soup;  here  the  apse  of  a  roofless 
chapel  and  there  the  seven  foundations  of  walls  d  la 
Montreuil.  The  pavilion  at  the  entrance,  built  at  the 
beginning  of  the  last  century,  was  all  that  was  still 
standing;  it  was  complete  and  almost  intact. 

M.  Mauperin  took  up  his  abode  in  this  and  lived 
there  until  1830,  solitary  and  entirely  absorbed  in  his 
studies.  He  gave  himself  up  to  reading,  educating 
himself  on  all  subjects,  and  reaping  knowledge  in  every 
direction.  He  was  familiar  with  all  the  great  histori- 
ans, philosophers,  and  politicians,  and  was  thoroughly 
master  of  the  industrial  sciences.  He  only  left  his 
books  when  he  felt  the  need  of  fresh  air,  and  then  he 
would  rest  his  brain  and  tire  his  body  with  long  walks 
of  some  fifteen  miles  across  the  fields  and  through  the 
woods. 

Every  one  was  accustomed  to  see  him  walk  like 
this,  and  the  country  people  recognised  him  in  the 
distance  by  his  step,  his  long  frock-coat,  all  but- 
toned up,  his  officer's  gait,  his  head  always  slightly 
bent,  and  the  stick,  made  from  a  vine-stalk,  which 
he  used  as  a  cane.  The  only  break  in  his  secluded 
and  laborious  life  was  at  election  time.  M.  Mau- 
perin then  put  in  an  appearance  everywhere  from 
one  end  of  the  department  to  the  other.  He  drove 

16 


Renee  Mauperin 


about  the  country  in  a  trap,  and  his  soldierly  voice 
cowld  be  heard  rousing  the  electors  to  enthusiasm  at 
all  their  meetings;  he  gave  the  word  of  command  for 
the  charge  on  the  Government  candidates,  and  to  him 
all  this  was  like  war  once  more. 

When  the  election  was  over  he  left  Chaumont  and 
returned  to  his  regular  routine  and  to  the  obscure 
tranquility  of  his  studies. 

Two  children  had  come  to  him — a  boy  in  1826  and 
a  girl  in  1827.  After  the  Revolution  of  1830  he  was 
elected  deputy.  When  he  took  his  seat  in  the  cham- 
ber, his  American  ideas  and  theories  were  very  much 
like  those  of  Armand  Carrel.  His  animated  speeches 
— brusque,  martial,  and  full  of  feeling — made  quite  a 
sensation.  He  became  one  of  the  inspirers  of  the 
National  after  being  one  of  its  first  shareholders,  and 
he  suggested  articles  attacking  the  budget  anti  the 
finances. 

The  Tuileries  made  advances  to  him;  some  of 
his  former  comrades,  who  were  now  aides-de-camp 
under  the  new  king,  sounded  him  with  the  promise  of 
a  high  military  position,  a  generalship  in  the  army,  or 
some  honour  for  which  he  was  still  young  enough. 
He  refused  everything  point-blank.  In  1832  he 
signed  the  protestation  of  bhe  deputies  of  the  Oppo- 
sition against  the  words  "  Subjects  of  the  King,"  which 
had  been  pronounced  by  M.  de  Montalivet,  and  he 
fought  against  this  system  until  1835. 

17 


Renee  Mauperin 


That  year  his  wife  presented  him  with  a  child,  a 
little  girl  whose  arrival  stirred  him  to  the  depths  of  his 
being.  His  other  two  children  had  merely  given  him 
a  calm  joy,  a  happiness  without  any  gaiety.  Some- 
thing had  always  seemed  wanting — just  that  some- 
thing which  brightens  a  father's  life  and  makes  the 
home  ring  with  laughter. 

M.  Mauperin  loved  his  two  children,  but  he  did 
not  adore  them.  The  fond  father  had  hoped  to  de- 
light in  them,  and  he  had  been  disappointed.  Instead 
of  the  son  he  had  dreamed  of — a  regular  boy,  a  mis- 
chievous little  urchin,  one  of  those  handsome  little 
dare-devils  with  whom  an  old  soldier  could  live  over 
again  his  own  youth  and  hear  once  more,  as  it 
were,  the  sound  of  gunpowder — M.  Mauperin  had 
to  do  with  a  most  rational  sort  of  a  child,  a  little 
boy  who  was  always  good,  "  quite  a  young  lady," 
as  he  said  himself.  This  had  been  a  great  trouble  to 
him,  as  he  felt  almost  ashamed  to  have,  as  his  son 
and  heir,  this  miniature  man  who  did  not  even  break 
his  toys. 

With  his  daughter  M.  Mauperin  had  had  the  same 
disappointment.  She  was  one  of  those  little  girls  who 
are  women  when  they  are  born,  and  who  play  with 
their  parents  merely  to  amuse  them.  She  scarcely 
had  any  childhood,  and  at  the  age  of  five,  if  a  gen- 
tleman^called  to  see  her  father,  she  always  ran  away 
to  wash  her  hands.  She  would  be  kissed  on  certain 

18 


Renee  Mauperin 


spots,  and  she  seemed  to  dread  being  ruffled  or  in- 
convenienced by  a  father's  caresses  and  love. 

Thus  repelled,  M.  Mauperin's  affection,  so  long 
hoarded  up,  went  out  to  the  cradle  of  the  little  new- 
comer whom  he  had  named  Renee  after  his  mother. 
He  spent  whole  days  with  his  little  baby-girl  in  divine 
nonsense.  He  would  keep  taking  off  her  little  cap  to 
look  at  her  silky  hair,  and  he  taught  her  to  make 
grimaces  which  charmed  him.  He  would  lie  down 
beside  her  on  the  floor  when  she  was  rolling  about 
half  naked  with  all  a  child's  delightful  unconscious- 
ness. In  the  night  he  would  get  up  to  look  at  her 
asleep,  and  would  pass  hours  listening  to  this  first 
breath  of  life,  so  like  the  respiration  of  a  flower. 
When  she  woke  up  he  would  be  there  to  have  her 
first  smile — that  smile  of  little  girl-babies  which  comes 
from  out  of  the  night  as  though  from  Paradise.  His 
happiness  kept  changing  into  perfect  bliss;  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  child  he  loved  so  much  was  a  little 
angel  from  heaven. 

What  joy  he  had  with  her  at  Morimond!  He 
would  wheel  her  all  round  the  house  in  a  little  car- 
riage, and  at  every  few  steps  turn  round  to  look 
at  her  screaming  with  laughter,  with  the  sunshine 
playing  on  her  cheeks,  and  her  little  supple,  pink  foot 
curled  up  in  her  hand.  Or  he  would  take  her  with 
him  when  he  went  for  a  walk,  and  would  go  as  far  as  a 
village  and  let  the  child  throw  kisses  to  the  people 

'9 


Renee  Mauperin 


who  bowed  to  him,  or  he  would  enter  one  of  the  farm- 
houses and  show  his  daughter's  teeth  with  great  pride. 
On  the  way,  the  child  would  often  go  to  sleep  in  his 
arms,  as  she  did  with  her  nurse.  At  other  times  he 
would  take  her  into  the  forest,  and  there,  under  the 
trees  full  of  robin-redbreasts  and  nightingales,  towards 
the  end  of  the  day  when  there  are  voices  overhead 
in  the  woods,  he  would  experience  the  most  unutter- 
able joy  on  hearing  the  child,  impressed  by  the  noises 
around,  try  to  imitate  the  sounds,  and  to  murmur  and 
prattle  as  though  she  were  answering  the  birds  and 
speaking  to  the  singing  heavens. 

Mme.  Mauperin  had  not  given  this  last  daugh- 
ter so  hearty  a  welcome.  She  was  a  good  wife  and 
mother,  but  Mme.  Mauperin  was  eaten  up  with  that 
pride  peculiar  to  the  provinces — namely,  the  pride 
of  money.  She  had  made  all  her  arrangements  for  two 
children,  but  the  third  one  was  not  welcome,  as  it 
would  interfere  with  the  pecuniary  affairs  of  the  other 
two,  and,  above  all,  would  infringe  on  her  son's 
share.  The  division  of  land  which  was  now  one  estate, 
the  partition  of  wealth  which  had  accumulated,  and 
in  consequence  the  lowering  of  social  position  in  the 
future  and  of  the  importance  of  the  family — all  this 
was  what  the  second  little  daughter  represented  to 
her  mother. 

M.  Mauperin  very  soon  had  no  more  peace.  The 
mother  was  constantly  attacking  the  politician,  and 

20 


Renee  Mauperin 


reminding  the  father  that  it  was  his  duty  to  sacrifice 
himself  to  the  interests  of  his  children.  She  endeav- 
oured to  separate  him  from  his  friends  and  to  make 
him  forsake  his  party  and  his  fidelity  to  his  ideas. 
She  made  fun  of  what  she  called  his  tomfoolery,  which 
prevented  him  from  turning  his  position  to  account. 
Every  day  there  were  fresh  attacks  and  reproaches 
until  he  was  fairly  haunted  by  them;  it  was  the  terrible 
battle  of  all  that  is  most  prosaic  against  the  conscience 
of  a  Deputy  of  the  Opposition.  Finally,  M.  Mauperin 
asked  his  wife  for  two  months'  truce  for  reflection,  as 
he,  too,  would  have  liked  his  beloved  Renee  to  be  rich. 
At  the  end  of  the  two  months  he  sent  his  resignation 
in  to  the  Chamber  and  opened  a  sugar-refinery  at 
Briche. 

That  had  been  twenty  years  ago.  The  children 
had  grown  up  and  the  business  was  thriving.  M. 
Mauperin  had  done  very  well  with  his  refinery.  His 
son  was  a  barrister,  his  elder  daughter  married,  and 
Renee's  dowry  was  waiting  for  her. 


21 


Ill 

EVERY  one  had  gone  into  the  house,  and  in  a 
corner  of  the  drawing-room,  with  its  chintz  hangings 
gay  with  bunches  of  wild  flowers,  Henri  Mauperin, 
Denoisel,  and  Reverchon  were  talking.  Near  to  the 
chimney-piece,  Mme.  Mauperin,  with  great  demon- 
strations of  affection,  was  greeting  her  son-in-law  and 
daughter,  M.  and  Mme.  Davarande,  who  had  just  ar- 
rived. She  felt  obliged  on  this  occasion  to  make  a 
display  of  family  feeling  and  to  exhibit  her  motherly 
love. 

The  greeting  between  Mme.  Mauperin  and  Mme. 
Davarande  was  scarcely  over  when  a  little  old  gentle- 
man entered  the  drawing-room  quietly,  wished  Mme. 
Mauperin  good-evening  with  his  eyes  as  he  passed, 
and  walked  straight  across  to  the  group  where  De- 
noisel was. 

This  little  gentleman  wore  a  dress-coat  and  had 
white  whiskers.  He  was  carrying  a  portfolio  under 
his  arm. 

"  Do  you  know  that?  "  he  asked  Denoisel,  taking 
him  into  a  window  recess  and  half  opening  his  folio. 

22 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  That?  I  should  just  think  I  do.  It's  the  '  Mys- 
terious Swing,'  an  engraving  after  Lavrience's." 

The  little  old  gentleman  smiled. 

"  Yes,  but  look,"  he  said,  and  he  half  opened  his 
portfolio  again,  but  in  such  a  way  that  Denoisel  could 
only  just  see  inside. 

" '  Before  letters.'  It's  a  proof  before  letters! 
Can  you  see?  " 

"  Perfectly." 

"And  margins! — a  gem,  isn't  it?  They  didn't 
give  it  me,  I  can  tell  you,  the  thieves!  It  was  run  up 
— and  by  a  woman,  too!  " 

"Oh,  of  course!" 

"  A  cocotte,  who  asked  to  see  it  every  time  I  went 
any  higher.  The  rascal  of  an  auctioneer  kept  saying, 
'  Pass  it  to  the  lady.'  At  last  I  got  it  for  five  pounds 
eight.  Oh,  I  wouldn't  have  paid  one  halfpenny  more." 

"  I  should  think  not!  If  I  had  only  known — why, 
there's  a  proof  like  that,  exactly  like  it,  at  Spindler's, 
the  artist's — and  with  larger  margins,  too.  He  does 
not  care  about  Louis  JBeize  things,  Spindler.  If  I  had 
only  asked  him!  " 

"Good  heavens! — and  before  letters,  like  mine? 
Are  you  quite  sure?  " 

"  Before  letters — before —  Oh,  yes,  it's  an  earlier 
one  than  yours.  It's  before — "  and  Denoisel  whis- 
pered something  to  the  old  man  which  brought  a 
flush  of  pleasure  to  his  face  and  a  moisture  to  his  lips. 

23 


Renee  Mauperin 

Just  at  this  moment  M.  Mauperin  entered  the 
drawing-room  with  his  daughter.  She  was  leaning 
on  his  arm,  her  head  slightly  thrown  back  in  an  in- 
dolent way,  rubbing  her  hair  against  the  sleeve  of 
her  father's  coat  as  a  child  does  when  it  is  being 
carried. 

"  How  are  you?  "  she  said  as  she  kissed  her  sis- 
ter. She  then  held  her  forehead  to  her  mother's  lips, 
shook  hands  with  her  brother-in-law,  and  ran  across 
to  the  little  man  with  the  portfolio. 

"  Can  I  see,  god-papa?  " 

"  No,  little  girl,  you  are  not  grown-up  enough 
yet,"  he  replied,  patting  her  cheek  in  an  affectionate 
way. 

"  Ah,  it's  always  like  that  with  the  things  you 
buy! "  said  Renee,  turning  her  back  on  the  old  man, 
who  tied  up  the  ribbon  of  his  portfolio  with  the  spe- 
cial little  bow  so  familiar  to  the  fingers  of  print  col- 
lectors. 

"  Well,  what's  this  I  hear?  "  suddenly  exclaimed 
Mme.  Mauperin,  turning  to  her  daughter. 

Reverchon  was  sitting  next  her,  so  near  that  her 
dress  touched  him  every  time  she  moved. 

"  You  were  both  carried  away  by  the  current,"  she 
continued.  "  It  was  dangerous,  I  am  sure!  Oh,  that 
river!  I  really  cannot  understand  how  M.  Mauperin 
allows " 

"  Mme.  Mauperin,"  replied  her  husband,  who  was 
24 


Renee  Mauperin 


by  the  table  looking  through  an  album  with  his  daugh- 
ter, "  I  do  not  allow  anything — I  tolerate " 

"  Coward!  "  whispered  Renee  to  her  father 

"  I  assure  you,  mamma,  there  was  no  danger,"  put 
in  Henri  Mauperin.  "  There  was  no  danger  at  all. 
They  were  just  slightly  carried  along  by  the  current, 
and  they  preferred  holding  on  to  a  boat  to  going  half 
a  mile  or  so  lower  down  the  river.  That  was  all !  You 
see " 

"  Ah,  you  comfort  me,"  said  Mme.  Mauperin,  the 
serenity  of  her  expression  gradually  returning  at  her 
son's  words.  "  I  know  you  are  so  prudent,  but,  you 
see,  M.  Reverchon,  our  dear  Renee  is  so  foolish  that 
I  am  always  afraid.  Oh,  dear,  there  are  drops  of 
water  on  her  hair  now.  Come  here  and  let  me  brush 
them  off." 

"  M.  Dardouillet !  "  announced  a  servant. 

"  A  neighbour  of  ours,"  said  Mme.  Mauperin  in  a 
low  voice  to  Reverchon. 

"  Well,  and  where  are  you  now?  "  asked  M.  Mau- 
perin, as  he  shook  hands  with  the  new  arrival. 

"  Oh,  we  are  getting  on — we  are  getting  on — 
three  hundred  stakes  done  to-day." 

"Three  hundred?" 

"  Three  hundred — I  fancy  it  won't  be  bad.  From 
the  green-house,  you  see,  I  am  going  straight  along 
as  far  as  the  water,  on  account  of  the  view.  Fourteen 
or  sixteen  inches  of  slope — not  more.  If  we  were 

25 


Renee  Mauperin 


on  the  spot  I  shouldn't  have  to  explain.  On  the 
other  side,  you  know,  I  shall  raise  the  path  about  three 
feet.  When  all  that's  done,  M.  Mauperin,  do  you 
know  that  there  won't  be  an  inch  of  my  land  that 
will  not  have  been  turned  over?  " 

"  But  when  shall  you  plant  anything,  M.  Dardouil- 
let?  "  asked  Mile.  Mauperin.  "  For  the  last  three 
years  you  have  only  had  workmen  in  your  garden; 
sha'n't  you  have  a  few  trees  in  some  day?  " 

"  Oh,  as  to  trees,  mademoiselle,  that's  nothing. 
There's  plenty  of  time  for  all  that.  The  most  im- 
portant thing  is  the  plan  of  the  ground,  the  hills 
and  slopes,  and  then  afterward  trees — if  we  want 
them." 

Some  one  had  just  come  in  by  a  door  leading  from 
another  room.  He  had  bowed  as  he  entered,  but  no 
one  had  seen  him,  and  he  was  there  now  without  any 
one  noticing  him.  He  had  an  honest-looking  face 
and  a  head  of  hair  like  a  pen-wiper.  It  was  M.  Mau- 
perin's  cashier,  M.  Bernard. 

"We  are  all  here;  has  M.  Bernard  come  down? 
Ah,  that's  right!  "  said  M.  Mauperin  on  seeing  him. 
"  Suppose  we  have  dinner,  Mme.  Mauperin,  these 
young  people  must  be  hungry." 

The  solemnity  of  the  first  few  moments  when  the 
appetite  is  keen  had  worn  off,  and  the  buzz  of  conver- 
sation could  be  heard  in  place  of  the  silence  with  which 

26 


Renee  Mauperin 


a  dinner  usually  commences,  and  which  is  followed  by 
the  noise  of  spoons  in  the  soup  plates. 

"  M.  Reverchon,"  began  Mme.  Mauperin.  She 
had  placed  the  young  man  by  her,  in  the  seat  of 
honour,  and  she  was  amiability  itself,  as  far  as  he  was 
concerned.  She  was  most  attentive  to  him  and  most 
anxious  to  please.  Her  smile  covered  her  whole  face, 
and  even  her  voice  was  not  her  every-day  voice,  but  a 
high-pitched  one  which  she  assumed  on  state  occa- 
sions. She  kept  glancing  from  the  young  man  to  his 
plate  and  from  his  plate  to  a  servant.  It  was  a  case 
of  a  mother  angling  for  a  son-in-law.  "  M.  Rever- 
chon, we  met  a  lady  just  recently  whom  you  know — 
Mme.  de  Bonnieres.  She  spoke  so  highly  of  you — 
oh,  so  highly!  " 

"  I  had  the  honour  of  meeting  Mme.  de  Bonnieres 
in  Italy — I  was  even  fortunate  enough  to  be  able  to 
render  her  a  little  service." 

"  Did  you  save  her  from  brigands?  "  exclaimed 
Renee. 

"  No,  it  was  much  less  romantic  than  that.  Mme. 
de  Bonnieres  had  some  difficulty  about  the  bill  at 
her  hotel.  She  was  alone  and  I  prevented  her  from 
being  robbed." 

"  It  was  a  case  of  robbers,  anyhow,  then,"  said 
Renee. 

"  One  might  write  a  play  on  the  subject,"  put  in 
Denoisel,  "  and  it  would  be  quite  a  new  plot — the 

27 


Renee  Mauperin 


reduction  of  a  bill  leading  to  a  marriage.  What  a 
good  title,  too,  '  The  Romance  of  an  Awkward  Mo- 
ment, a  la  Rabelais ! ' 

"  Mme.  de  Bonnieres  is  a  very  nice  woman,"  con- 
tinued Mme.  Mauperin.  "  I  like  her  face.  Do  you 
know  her,  M.  Barousse?  "  she  asked,  turning  to  Re- 
nee's  godfather. 

"  Yes,  she  is  very  pleasant." 

"Oh!  why,  god-papa,  she's  like  a  satyr!"  ex- 
claimed Renee. 

When  the  word  was  out  some  of  the  guests  smiled, 
and  the  young  girl,  turning  red,  hastened  to  add :  "  I 
only  mean  she  has  a  face  like  one." 

"That's    what    I    call    mending    matters!"    said 

T-V  •  » 

Denoisel. 

"  Did  you  stay  long  in  Italy,  monsieur?  "  asked  M. 
Mauperin,  by  way  of  changing  the  subject. 

"  Six  months." 

"  And  what  did  you  think  of  it?  " 

"  It's  very  interesting,  but  one  has  so  much  dis- 
comfort there.  I  never  could  get  used  to  drinking 
coffee  out  of  glasses." 

"  Italy  is  the  most  wretched  place  to  go  to;  it  is  the 
least  practical  of  all  places,"  said  Henri  Mauperin. 
"  What  a  state  agriculture  is  in  there — and  trade,  too! 
One  day  in  Florence  at  a  masked  ball  I  asked  the 
waiter  at  a  restaurant  if  they  would  be  open  all  night. 
'  Oh,  no,  sir,'  he  said,  '  we  should  have  too  many  peo- 

28 


Renee  Mauperin 


pie  here.'  That's  a  fact,  I  heard  it  myself,  and  that 
shows  you  what  the  country  is.  When  one  thinks  of 
England,  of  that  wonderful  initiative  power  of  individ- 
uals and  of  the  whole  nation,  too;  when  one  has  seen 
the  business  genius  of  the  London  citizen  and  the  prod- 
uce of  a  Yorkshire  farm —  Oh,  a  fine  nation  that!  " 

"  I  agree  with  Henri,"  said  Mme.  Davarande, 
"  there  is  something  so  distinguished  about  England. 
I  like  the  politeness  of  the  English  people,  and  I 
approve  of  their  way  of  always  introducing  peo- 
ple. Then,  too,  they  wrap  your  change  up  in  paper 
— and  some  of  their  dress  materials  have  quite  a  style 
of  their  own.  My  husband  bought  me  a  poplin  dress 
at  the  Exposition —  Oh,  mamma,  I  have  quite  de- 
cided about  my  cloak.  I  was  at  Alberic's — it's  most 
amusing.  He  lets  one  of  the  girls  put  a  cloak  over 
your  shoulders  and  then  he  walks  round  you  and  just 
marks  with  an  ebony  ruler  the  places  where  it  does 
not  fit;  he  scarcely  touches  you  with  it,  but  just  gives 
little  taps — like  that — and  the  girl  marks  each  tap  with 
chalk.  Oh,  he  certainly  has  a  lot  of  character,  that 
Alberic!  And  then  he's  the  only  one — there  isn't  an- 
other place — he  has  such  good  style  for  cloaks.  I 
recognised  two  of  his  yesterday  at  the  races.  He  is 
very  expensive  though." 

"  Oh,  those  people  get  what  they  like  to  ask," 
said  Reverchon.  "  My  tailor,  Edouard,  has  just  re- 
tired— he's  made  over  a  hundred  thousand  pounds." 

29 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Oh,  well,  quite  right,"  remarked  M.  Barousse. 
"  I'm  always  very  glad  when  I  see  things  like  that. 
The  workers  get  the  money  nowadays — that's  just 
what  it  is.  It's  the  greatest  revolution  since  the  be- 
ginning of  the  world." 

"  Yes,"  said  Denoisel,  "  a  revolution  that  makes 
one  think  of  the  words  of  Chapon,  the  celebrated  thief: 
'  Robbery,  Monsieur  le  President,  is  the  principal 
trade  of  the  world! '  " 

"  Were  the  races  good?  "  asked  Renee. 

"  Well,  there  were  plenty  of  people,"  answered 
Mme.  Davarande. 

"  Very  good,  mademoiselle,"  said  Reverchon. 
"  The  Diana  prize  especially  was  very  well  run. 
Plume  de  coq,  that  they  reckoned  at  thirty-five,  was 
beaten  by  Basilicate  by  two  lengths.  It  was  very 
exciting.  The  hacks  was  a  very  good  race,  too,  al- 
though the  ground  was  rather  hard." 

"  Who  is  the  Russian  lady  who  drives  four-in- 
hand,  M.  Reverchon?  "  asked  Mme.  Davarande. 

"  Mme.  de  Rissleff.  She  has  some  splendid  horses, 
some  thoroughbred  Orloffs." 

"  You  ought  to  join  the  Jockey  Club,  Jules,  for  the 
races,"  said  Mme.  Davarande,  turning  to  her  husband. 
"  I  think  it  is  so  common  to  be  with  everybody. 
Really  if  one  has  any  respect  for  one's  self — a  woman 
I  mean — there  is  no  place  but  the  jockey  stand." 

"  Ah,  a  mushroom  patty!  "  exclaimed  M.  Barousse. 
30 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Your  cook  is  surpassing  herself,  she  really  is  a  veri- 
table cordon-bku.  I  shall  have  to  pay  her  my  compli- 
ments before  leaving." 

"  I  thought  you  never  eat  that  dish,"  said  Mme. 
Mauperin. 

"I  did  not  eat  it  in  1848 — and  I  did  not  eat  it 
up  to  the  second  of  December.  Do  you  think  the 
police  had  time  then  to  inspect  mushrooms?  But  now 
that  there  is  order  again." 

"  Henriette,"  said  Mme.  Mauperin  to  Mme.  Dava- 
rande,  "  I  must  scold  your  husband.  He  neglects  us. 
We  have  not  seen  you  for  three  weeks,  M.  Dava- 
rande." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  mother,  if  you  only  knew  all  I 
have  had  to  do!  You  know  I  am  on  very  good  terms 
with  Georges.  His  father  has  his  time  taken  up  at 
the  Chamber  and  the  business  falls  on  Georges  as 
principal.  There  are  hundreds  of  things  that  he  can 
only  trust  to  people  in  whom  he  has  confidence — 
friends,  in  fact.  There  was  that  big  affair — that  debut 
at  the  Opera.  There  was  no  end  of  interviews  and 
parley  ings  and  journeys  backward  and  forward.  It 
would  not  have  done  to  have  had  any  strife  between 
the  two  ministries.  Oh,  we  have  been  very  busy  late- 
ly. He  is  so  considerate  that  I  could  not " 

"  So  considerate?  "  put  in  Denoisel.  "  He  might 
pay  your  cab-fares  at  least.  It's  more  than  two  years 
since  he  promised  you  a  sub-prefectship." 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  My  dear  Denoisel,  it's  more  difficult  than  you 
imagine.  And  then,  too,  when  one  does  not  care 
about  going  too  far  from  Paris.  Besides,  between 
ourselves,  I  can  tell  you  that  it's  almost  arranged. 
In  about  a  month  from  now  I  have  every  reason  to 
believe " 

"  What  debut  were  you  speaking  of  ?  "  asked  Ba- 
rousse. 

"  Bradizzi's,"  answered  Davarande. 

"Ah,  Bradizzi!  Isn't  she  astounding!"  said  Re- 
verchon.  "  She  has  some  nans  that  are  wonderfully 
light.  The  other  day  I  was  in  the  manager's  box  on 
the  stage  and  we  couldn't  hear  her  touch  the  ground 
when  she  was  dancing." 

"  We  expected  to  see  you  yesterday  evening, 
Henri,"  said  Mme.  Davarande  to  her  brother. 

"  Yesterday  I  was  at  my  lecture,"  he  answered. 

"  Henri  has  been  appointed  reporter,"  said  Mme. 
Mauperin  proudly. 

"  Ah,"  put  in  Denoisel,  "  the  d'Aguesseau  lecture? 
That's  still  going  on  then,  your  speechifying  affair? 
How  many  are  there  in  it?  " 

"  Two  hundred." 

"  And  all  statesmen?  It's  quite  alarming.  What 
were  you  to  report  on?  " 

"  A  law  that  was  proposed  with  reference  to  the 
National  Guard." 

"  You  go  in  for  everything,"  said  Denoisel. 
32 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  I  am  sure  you  do  not  belong  to  the  National 
Guard,  Denoisel?  "  observed  M.  Barousse. 

"No,  indeed!" 

"  And  yet  it  is  an  institution." 

"  The  drums  affirm  that  it  is  that,  M.  Barousse." 

"  And  you  do  not  vote  either,  I  would  wager?  " 

"  I  would  not  vote  under  any  pretext." 

"  Denoisel,  I  am  sorry  to  say  so,  but  you  are  a  bad 
citizen.  You  were  born  as  you  are,  I  am  not  blaming 
you,  but  the  fact  remains " 

"  A  bad  citizen — what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Well,  you  are  always  in  opposition  to  the  laws." 

"  I  am?  " 

"  Yes,  you  are.  Without  going  any  farther  back, 
take  for  instance  the  money  you  came  into  from  your 
Uncle  Frederic.  You  handed  it  over  to  his  illegiti- 
mate children " 

"  What  of  that?  " 

"  Well,  that  is  what  I  call  an  illegal  action,  most 
deplorable  and  blameworthy.  What  does  the  law 
mean?  It  is  quite  clear — the  law  means  that  chil- 
dren not  born  in  wedlock  should  not  be  able  to  in- 
herit their  father's  money.  You  were  not  ignorant  of 
this,  for  I  told  you  that  it  was  so;  your  lawyer  told 
you  and  the  code  told  you.  What  did  you  do?  Why, 
you  let  the  children  have  the  money.  You  ignored 
the  code,  the  spirit  of  the  law,  everything.  To  give 
up  your  uncle's  fortune  in  that  way,  Denoisel,  was 

33  Vol.  12— c 


Renee  Mauperin 


rendering  homage  to  low  morals.     It  was  simply  en- 
couraging  " 

"  I  know  your  principles  in  the  matter,  M.  Ba- 
rousse.  But  what  was  I  to  do?  When  I  saw  those 
three  poor  lads  I  said  to  myself  that  I  should  never 
enjoy  the  cigars  I  smoked  with  their  bread-money. 
No  one  is  perfect " 

"  All  that  is  not  law.  When  there  is  a  law  there 
is  some  reason  for  it,  is  there  not?  The  law 
is  against  immorality.  Suppose  others  imitated 
you " 

"  You  need  not  fear  that,  Barousse,"  said  M.  Mau- 
perin, smiling. 

"  We  ought  never  to  set  a  bad  example,"  answered 
Barousse,  sententiously.  "  Do  not  misunderstand 
me,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Denoisel.  "  I  do  not 
respect  you  any  the  less  for  it,  on  the  contrary,  I  ap- 
preciate your  disinterestedness,  but  as  to  saying  that 
you  were  right — no,  I  cannot  say  that.  It's  the  same 
with  your  way  of  living — that  is  not  as  it  should  be. 
You  ought  to  have  your  time  occupied — hang  it  all! 
You  ought  to  do  something,  go  in  for  something, 
take  up  some  work,  pay  your  debt  to  your  country. 
If  you  had  begun  in  good  time,  with  your  intelligence, 
you  would  perhaps  have  had  a  post  bringing  you  in 
a  thousand  or  more " 

"  I  have  had  a  better  thing  than  that  offered  me, 
M.  Barousse." 

34 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  More  money?  "  asked  Barousse. 

"  More  money,"  answered  Denoisel  tranquilry. 

Barousse  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  Seriously,"  continued  Denoisel,  "  I  had  the  most 
brilliant  prospects — just  for  five  minutes.  It  was  on 
the  twenty-fourth  of  February,  1848.  I  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  myself,  for  when  one  has  done  the 
Tuileries  in  the  morning  it  rather  unsettles  one  for 
the  rest  of  the  day.  It  occurred  to  me  that  I  would 
go  and  call  on  one  of  my  friends  who  has  a  Govern- 
ment appointment — a  Government  appointment,  you 
know,  on  the  other  side  of  the  water.  I  arrived,  and 
there  was  no  one  there.  I  went  upstairs  into  the  min- 
ister's office  where  my  friend  worked — no  friend  there. 
I  lighted  a  cigarette,  intending  to  wait  for  him.  A 
gentleman  came  in  while  I  was  smoking,  and  seeing 
me  seated,  imagined  I  belonged  to  the  place.  He 
had  no  hat  on,  so  that  I  thought  he  also  did.  He 
asked  me  very  politely  to  show  him  the  way  about 
the  house.  I  took  him  round  and  then  we  came 
back.  He  gave  me  something  to  write  down,  just 
telling  me  the  sense  of  it.  I  took  my  friend's  pen 
and  wrote.  He  then  read  it  and  was  delighted. 
We  talked;  he  admired  my  orthography.  He  shook 
hands  with  me  and  found  I  had  gloves  on.  To 
cut  it  short,  at  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he 
was  pressing  me  to  be  his  secretary.  It  was  the 
new  minister." 

35 


Renee  Mauperin 

"  And  you  did  not  accept?  " 

"  My  friend  arrived  and  I  accepted  for  him.  He  is 
at  present  quite  a  high  functionary  in  the  Council  of 
State.  It  was  lucky  for  him  to  be  supernumerary  only 
half  a  day." 

They  were  having  dessert,  and  M.  Mauperin  had 
pulled  one  of  the  dishes  nearer  and  was  just  helping 
himself  in  an  absent-minded  way. 

"  M.  Mauperin! "  exclaimed  his  wife,  looking 
steadily  at  him. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  my  dear — symmetry — you  are 
quite  right.  I  wasn't  thinking,"  and  he  pushed  the 
dish  back  to  its  place. 

"  You  always  do  disarrange  things " 

"  I'm  sorry,  my  dear,  I'm  very  sorry.  My  wife 
is  an  excellent  woman,  you  know,  gentlemen,  but  if 
you  disarrange  her  symmetry  for  hep —  It's  quite  a 
religion  with  my  wife — symmetry  is." 

"How  ridiculous  you  are,  M.  Mauperin!"  said 
Mme.  Mauperin,  blushing  at  being  convicted  of  the 
most  flagrant  provincialism;  and  then,  turning  upon 
her  daughter,  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  dear,  Renee;  how 
you  stoop!  Do  sit  up,  my  child " 

"  That's  always  the  way,"  murmured  the  young 
girl,  speaking  to  herself.  "  Mamma  avenges  herself 
on  me." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  M.  Mauperin,  when  they  had 
returned  to  the  drawing-room,  "  you  can  smoke  here, 

36 


'  1  \'(<;/>   wntfotr  tih.k  \o 

//;•  A' A7>    TOU'AKf>S     Tlfl- 


Renee  Mauperin 


you  know.  We  owe  that  liberty  to  my  son.  He  has 
been  lucky  enough  to  obtain  his  mother's " 

"  Coffee,  god-papa?  "  asked  Renee. 

"  No,"  answered  M.  Barousse,  "  I  shouldn't  be 
able  to  go  to  sleep " 

"  Here,"  put  in  Renee,  finishing  his  sentence  for 
him. 

"  M.  Reverchon?  " 

"  I  never  take  it,  thank  you  very  much." 

She  went  backward  and  forward,  the  steam  from 
the  cup  of  hot  coffee  she  was  carrying  rising  to  her 
face  and  flushing  it. 

"  Is  every  one  served?  "  she  asked,  and  without 
waiting  for  any  reply  she  sat  down  to  the  piano  and 
struck  the  first  notes  of  a  polka. 

"  Are  we  going  to  dance?  "  she  asked,  breaking 
off.  "  Let  us  dance — oh,  do  let  us  dance! " 

"  Let  us  smoke  in  peace!  "  said  M.  Mauperin. 

"  Yes,  daddy,"  and  going  on  with  her  polka  she 
danced  it  herself  on  her  music-stool,  only  touching 
the  floor  with  her  tip-toes.  She  played  without  look- 
ing at  her  notes,  her  face  turned  towards  the  drawing- 
room,  smiling  and  animated,  her  eyes  lighted  up  and 
her  cheeks  flushed  with  the  excitement  of  the  dance; 
like  a  little  girl  playing  dance  music  for  other  people 
and  moving  about  herself  as  she  watches  them.  She 
swung  her  shoulders,  her  form  swayed  as  though  she 
were  being  guided  along,  while  her  whole  body 

37 


Renee  Mauperin 

marked  the  rhythm  and  her  attitude  seemed  to  indi- 
cate the  step  she  was  dancing.  Then  she  turned  to- 
wards the  piano  again  and  her  eyes  followed  her  hands 
over  the  black  and  white  keys.  Bending  over  the 
music  she  was  playing,  she  seemed  to  be  striking  the 
notes,  then  caressing  them,  speaking  to  them,  scolding 
them  or  smiling  on  them,  and  then  lulling  them  to 
sleep.  She  would  sustain  the  loud  parts,  then  linger 
over  the  melody;  there  were  movements  that  she 
would  play  with  tenderness  and  others  with  little 
bursts  of  passion.  She  bent  over  the  piano,  then  rose 
again,  the  light  playing  on  the  top  of  her  tortoise-shell 
comb  one  moment,  while  the  next  moment  it  could 
scarcely  be  seen  in  her  black  hair.  The  two  candles  on 
the  piano  flickered  to  the  noise,  throwing  a  light  over 
her  profile  or  sending  their  flame  over  her  forehead, 
her  cheeks,  and  her  chin.  The  shadow  from  her 
ear-rings — two  coral  balls — trembled  all  the  time 
on  the  delicate  skin  of  her  throat,  and  her  fingers 
ran  so  quickly  over  the  keyboard  that  one  could 
only  see  something  pink  flying  backward  and  for- 
ward. 

"  And  it's  her  own  composition,"  said  M.  Mau- 
perin to  Reverchon. 

"  She  has  had  lessons  from  Ouidant,"  added  Mme. 
Mauperin. 

"There — I've  finished!"  exclaimed  Renee,  sud- 
denly leaving  the  piano  and  planting  herself  in  front 

38 


Renee  Mauperin 


of  Denoisel.  "  Tell  me  a  story  now,  Denoisel,  to 
amuse  me — anything  you  like." 

She  was  standing  before  him,  her  arms  crossed  and 
her  head  slightly  thrown  back,  the  weight  of  her  body 
supported  on  one  leg,  and  a  mischievous,  daring  look 
on  her  face  which  lent  additional  grace  to  her  slightly 
masculine  dress.  She  was  wearing  a  high  collar  of 
pique  with  a  cravat  of  black  ribbon,  and  the  revers 
of  her  white  front  turned  back  over  her  jacket 
bodice  of  cloth.  There  were  pockets  on  the  front  of 
her  skirt. 

"  When  shall  you  cut  your  wisdom  teeth,  Re- 
nee?  "  asked  Denoisel. 

"  Never!  "  she  answered,  laughing.  "  Well,  what 
about  my  story?  " 

Denoisel  looked  round  to  see  that  no  one  was 
listening,  and  then  lowering  his  voice  began: 

"  Once  upon  a  time  a  papa  and  a  mamma  had  a 
little  daughter.  The  papa  and  mamma  wished  her 
to  marry,  and  they  sent  for  some  very  nice-looking 
gentlemen ;  but  the  little  daughter,  who  was  very  nice- 
looking,  too " 

"Oh,  how  stupid  you  are! — I'll  get  my  work, 
there — "  and  taking  her  work  out  of  a  basket  on 
the  table  she  went  and  sat  down  by  her  mother. 

"  Are  we  not  going  to  have  any  whist  to-night?  " 
asked  M.  Mauperin. 

• '  Yes,  of  course,  my  dear,"  answered  Mme.  Mau- 
39 


Renee  Mauperin 


perin.     "  The  table  is  ready — you  see  there  are  only 
the  candles  to  light." 

"  Going,  going,  gone!  "  called  out  Denoisel  in  M. 
Barousse's  ear. 

The  old  gentleman  was  just  beginning  to  doze  in  a 
corner  by  the  chimney-piece  and  his  head  was  nodding 
like  a  passenger's  in  a  stage-coach.  M.  Barousse 
started  up  and  Denoisel  handed  him  a  card: 
I-  "  The  King  of  Spades!  before  the  letter!  You  are 
wanted  at  whist." 

'  You  are  not  over-tired  this  evening,  madem- 
oiselle? "  asked  Reverchon,  approaching  Renee. 

"  I  ?  I  could  dance  all  night.  That's  how  I 
feel." 

"  You  are  making  something — very  pretty " 

"This? — oh,  yes,  very  pretty!  It  is  a  stocking — 
I  am  knitting  for  my  little  poor  children.  It's  warm, 
that's  all  it  is.  I  am  not  very  clever  with  my  needle, 
you  know.  With  embroidery  and  wool-work  you 
have  to  think  about  what  you  are  doing,  but  with 
this,  you  see,  your  fingers  go;  it  just  makes  itself  when 
once  you  start,  and  you  can  think  about  anything — 
the  Grand  Turk  if  you  like " 

"  I  say,  Renee,"  observed  M.  Mauperin,  "  it's  odd; 
it's  no  good  my  losing,  I  can't  catch  up  again." 

"  Oh,  that's  clever — I  shall  remember  that  for  my 
collection,"  answered  Renee.  "  Denoisel,  come  here," 
she  called  out,  suddenly,  "  come  here  a  minute — 

40 


Renee  Mauperin 


nearer — nearer  still.  Will  you  come  here  at  once—- 
there now — kneel  down " 

"  Are  you  mad,  child?  "  exclaimed  Mme.  Mau- 
perin. 

"  Renee,"  said  Denoisel,  "  I  believe  you  have 
made  up  your  mind  to  prevent  my  getting  mar- 
ried." 

"  Come,  come,  Renee!  "  said  M.  Mauperin  pa- 
ternally from  the  card-table. 

"  Well — what  is  it?  "  asked  Renee  threatening 
Denoisel  playfully  with  a  pair  of  scissors.  "  Now  if 
you  move!  Denoisel's  head  always  looks  untidy — his 
hair  is  badly  cut — he  always  has  a  great,  ugly  lock 
that  falls  over  his  forehead.  It  makes  people  squint 
when  they  look  at  him.  I  want  to  cut  that  lock. 
There — he's  afraid.  Why,  I  cut  hair  very  well — you 
ask  papa,"  and  forthwith  she  gave  two  or  three  clips 
with  her  scissors,  and  then  crossing  over  to  the  fire- 
place, shook  the  hair  into  the  grate.  "  If  you  fancy 
it  was  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  lock  of  your  hair — " 
she  said,  turning  round  as  she  spoke. 

She  had  paid  no  attention  to  the  nudge  her  brother 
had  given  her  as  she  passed.  Her  mother,  who  an  in- 
stant before  was  perfectly  crimson,  was  now  pale,  but 
Renee  had  not  noticed  that.  Her  father  left  the  whist- 
table  and  came  across  to  her  with  an  embarrassed  ex- 
pression, looking  as  though  he  were  vexed  with  her. 
She  took  the  cigarette  which  he  had  lighted  from 

41 


Renee  Mauperin 

him,  put  it  between  her  own  lips,  and  drawing  a  puff 
of  smoke,  blew  it  away  again  quickly,  turning  her 
head  away,  coughing  and  blinking.  "Ugh! — how 
horrid  it  is! " 

"  Well,  really,  Renee!  "  exclaimed  Mme.  Mauperin 
severely,  and  evidently  in  great  distress,  "  I  really 
don't  know — I  have  never  seen  you  like  this 

"  Bring  the  tea  in,"  said  M.  Mauperin  to  a  servant 
who  had  entered  in  answer  to  his  peal  at  the  bell. 


IV 

"  A  QUARTER  past  ten  already!  "  said  Mme.  Dava- 
rande.  "  We  shall  only  just  have  time  to  get  to  the 
station.  Renee,  tell  them  to  bring  me  my  hat." 

Every  one  rose.  Barousse  woke  up  from  his  nap 
with  the  noise,  and  the  little  band  of  guests  from  Paris 
set  out  for  Saint-Denis. 

"  I'll  come  with  you,"  said  Denoisel.  "  I  should 
like  a  breath  of  air." 

Barousse  was  in  front,  arm-in-arm  with  Rever- 
chon.  The  Davarandes  followed,  and  Henri  Mauperin 
and  Denoisel  brought  up  the  rear. 

"  Why  don't  you  stay  all  night?  You  could  go 
back  to  Paris  to-morrow,"  Denoisel  began. 

"  No,"  answered  Henri,  "  I  won't  do  that.  I  have 
some  work  to  do  to-morrow  morning.  I  should  get 
to  Paris  late  and  my  day  would  be  wasted." 

They  were  silent,  and  every  now  and  then  a  few 
words  from  Barousse  to  Reverchon  in  praise  of  Renee 
came  to  them  through  the  silence  of  the  night. 

"  I  say,  Denoisel,  I'm  afraid  it  is  all  up  with  that, 
don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  is." 

43 


Renee  Mauperin 

"  Oh,  dear!  Will  you  tell  me,  my  dear  fellow, 
what  made  you  humour  Renee  in  all  the  nonsense 
that  came  into  her  head  this  evening?  You  have  a 
great  deal  of  influence  over  her  and " 

"  My  dear  boy,"  answered  Denoisel,  puffing  at  his 
cigar,  "  you  must  let  me  give  you  a  social,  philosophi- 
cal, and  historical  parenthesis.  We  have  quite  fin- 
ished, have  we  not,  and  when  I  say  we,  I  mean  the  ma- 
jority of  the  French  people,  with  the  pretty  little 
young  ladies  who  used  to  talk  like  mechanical  dolls. 
They  could  say  '  papa  '  and  '  mamma,'  and  when  they 
went  to  a  dance  they  never  lost  sight  of  their  parents. 
The  little  childlike  young  lady  who  was  always  so 
timid  and  bashful  and  who  used  to  blush  and  stammer, 
brought  up  to  be  ignorant  of  everything,  neither 
knowing  how  to  stand  up  on  her  legs  nor  how  to  sit 
down  on  a  chair — all  that  sort  of  thing's  done  with, 
old-fashioned,  worn  out.  That  was  the  marriageable 
young  lady  of  the  days  of  the  Gymnase  Theatre. 
There  is  nothing  of  that  kind  nowadays.  The  process 
of  culture  has  changed;  it  used  to  be  a  case  of  the 
fruit-wall,  but  at  present  the  young  person  grows  in 
the  open.  We  ask  a  girl  now  about  her  impressions 
and  we  expect  her  to  say  what  she  thinks  naturally 
and  originally.  She  is  allowed  to  talk,  and  indeed  is 
expected  to  talk,  about  everything,  as  that  is  the 
accepted  thing  now.  She  need  no  longer  act  sweet 
simplicity,  but  native  intelligence.  If  only  she  can 

44 


Renee  Mauperin 


shine  in  society  her  parents  are  delighted.  Her 
mother  takes  her  to  classes.  If  she  should  have  any 
talent  it  is  encouraged  and  cultivated.  Instead  of  or- 
dinary governesses  she  must  have  good  masters,  pro- 
fessors from  the  Conservatoire,  or  artists  whose  pic- 
tures have  been  hung.  She  goes  in  for  being  an  artist 
and  every  one  is  delighted.  Come,  now,  isn't  that  the 
way  girls  are  being  educated  now  in  middle-class  so- 
ciety? ' 

"And  the  result?" 

"  Now,  then,"  continued  Denoisel  without  an- 
swering the  question,  "  in  the  midst  of  this  education, 
which  I  am  not  criticising,  remember — in  the  midst  of 
all  this,  let  us  imagine  a  father  who  is  an  excellent 
sort  of  man,  goodness  and  kindness  personified,  en- 
couraging his  daughter  in  her  new  freedom  by  his 
weakness  and  his  worship  of  her.  Let  us  suppose,  for 
instance,  that  this  father  has  countenanced  all  the  dar- 
ing and  all  the  mischievousness  of  a  boy  in  a  woman, 
that  he  has  allowed  his  daughter  little  by  little  to  cul- 
tivate manly  accomplishments,  which  he  sees  with 
pride  and  which  are  after  his  own  heart " 

"  And  you,  my  dear  fellow,  who  know  my  sister 
so  well  and  the  way  she  has  been  brought  up,  the 
style  she  has  gone  in  for,  authorized  as  she  considers 
herself  (thanks  to  father's  indulgence),  you,  knowing 
how  difficult  it  is  to  get  her  married,  allowed  her  to 
do  all  kinds  of  unseemly  things  this  evening  when 

45 


Renee  Mauperin 

you  might  have  stopped  her  short  with  just  a  few 
words  such  as  you  always  find  to  say  and  which  you 
alone  can  say  to  her?  " 

The  friend  to  whom  Henri  Mauperin  was  speak- 
ing, Denoisel,  was  the  son  of  a  compatriot,  and  old 
school  friend  and  brother-in-arms  of  M.  Mauperin. 
The  two  men  had  been  in  the  same  battles,  they  had 
shed  their  blood  in  the  same  places,  and  during  the 
retreat  from  Russia  they  had  eaten  the  same  horse- 
flesh. 

A  year  after  his  return  to  France,  M.  Mauperin 
had  lost  this  friend,  who  on  his  death-bed  had  left  him 
guardian  to  his  son.  The  boy  had  found  a  second 
father  in  his  guardian.  When  at  college,  he  had  spent 
all  his  holidays  at  Morimond,  and  he  looked  upon  the 
Mauperins  as  his  own  family. 

When  M.  Mauperin's  children  came  it  seemed  to 
the  young  man  that  a  brother  and  sister  had  been  just 
what  he  had  wanted;  he  felt  as  though  he  were  their 
elder  brother,  and  he  became  a  child  again  in  order  to 
be  one  with  them. 

His  favourite  was,  of  course,  Renee,  who  when 
quite  little  began  to  adore  him.  She  was  very  lively 
and  self-willed  and  he  alone  could  make  her  listen  to 
reason  and  obey.  As  she  grew  up  he  had  been  the 
moulder  of  her  character,  the  confessor  of  her  intel- 
lect, and  the  director  of  her  tastes.  His  influence  over 

46 


Renee  Mauperin 

the  young  girl  had  increased  day  by  day  as  they  grew 
more  and  more  familiar.  A  room  was  always  kept 
ready  for  Denoisel  in  the  house,  his  place  was  always 
kept  for  him  at  table,  and  he  came  whenever  he  liked 
to  spend  a  week  with  the  Mauperins. 

"  There  are  days,"  continued  Henri,  "  when  Re- 
nee's  nonsense  does  not  matter,  but  this  evening — 
before  that  man.  It  will  be  all  off  with  that  mar- 
riage, I'm  sure!  It  would  have  been  an  excellent 
match — he  has  such  good  prospects.  He's  just  the 
man  in  every  respect — charming,  too,  and  distin- 
guished." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  For  my  part,  I  should  have 
been  afraid  of  him  for  your  sister.  That  is  really 
the  reason  why  I  behaved  as  I  did  this  evening.  That 
man  has  a  sort  of  common  distinction  about  him — a 
distinction  made  up  of  the  vulgarity  of  all  kinds  of 
elegancies.  He's  a  fashion  poster,  a  tailor's  model, 
morally  and  physically.  There's  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing,  in.  a  little  fellow  like  that.  A  husband  for 
your  sister — that  man?  Why,  how  in  the  world  do 
you  suppose  he  could  ever  understand  her?  How 
is  he  ever  to  discover  all  the  warmth  of  feeling 
and  the  elevation  and  nobility  of  character  hidden 
under  her  eccentricities?  Can  you  imagine  them  hav- 
ing a  thought  in  common?  Good  heavens!  if  your 
sister  married,  no  matter  whom,  so  long  as  the  man 

47 


Renee  Mauperin 

were  intelligent  and  had  some  character  and  individ- 
uality, as  long  as  there  were  something  in  him  that 
would  either  govern  or  appeal  to  a  nature  like  hers 
— why,  I  would  say  nothing.'  A  man  has  often 
great  faults  which  appeal  to  a  woman's  heart.  He 
may  be  a  bad  lot,  and  there  is  the  chance  that  she 
will  go  on  loving  him  through  sheer  jealousy.  With 
a  busy,  ambitious  man  like  you  she  would  have  all  the 
thought  and  excitement  and  all  the  dreams  about  his 
career  to  occupy  her  mind.  But  a  dandy  like  that  for 
life!  Why,  your  sister  would  be  absolutely  wretched; 
she  would  die  of  misery.  She  isn't  like  other  girls, 
you  know,  your  sister — one  must  take  that  into  con- 
sideration. She  is  high-minded,  untrammelled  by 
conventionalities,  very  fond  of  fun,  and  very  affection- 
ate. At  bottom  she  is  a  melancolique  tintamarresque." 

"  A  melancolique  tintamarresque?  What  does  that 
mean?  " 

"  I'll  explain.     She " 

"Henri,  hurry  up!"  called  out  Davarande  from 
the  platform.  "  They  are  getting  into  the  train.  I 
have  your  ticket." 


M.  and  Mme.  Mauperin  were  in  their  bed-room. 
The  clock  had  just  struck  midnight,  gravely  and  slow- 
ly, as  though  to  emphasize  the  solemnity  of  that  con- 
fidential and  conjugal  moment  which  is  both  the 
tete-a-tete  of  wedded  life  and  the  secret  council  of  the 
household — that  moment  of  transformation  and  magic 
which  is  both  bourgeois  and  diabolic,  and  which  re- 
minds one  of  that  story  of  the  woman  metamor- 
phosed into  a  cat.  The  shadow  of  the  bed  falls  mys- 
teriously over  the  wife,  and  as  she  lies  down  there  is  a 
sort  of  charm  about  her.  Something  of  the  bewitch- 
ments of  a  mistress  come  to  her  at  this  instant.  Her 
will  seems  to  be  roused  there  by  the  side  of  the  marital 
will  which  is  dormant.  She  sits  up,  scolds,  sulks, 
teases,  struggles.  She  has  caresses  and  scratches  for 
the  man.  The  pillow  confers  on  her  its  force,  her 
strength  comes  to  her  with  the  night. 

Mme.  Mauperin  was  putting  her  hair  in  papers 

in  front  of  the  glass,  which  was  lighted  by  a  single 

candle.     She  was  in  her  skirt  and  dressing-jacket. 

Her  stout  figure,  above  which  her  little  arms  kept 

4  49 


Renee  Mauperin 


moving  as  if  she  were  crowning  herself,  threw  on 
the  wall  a  fantastic  outline  of  a  woman  of  fifty  in 
deshabille,  and  on  the  paper  at  the  end  of  the  room 
eould  be  seen  wavering  about  one  of  those  corpulent 
shadows  which  one  could  imagine  Hoffman  and  Dau- 
mier  sketching  from  the  back  of  the  beds  of  old 
married  couples.  M.  Mauperin  was  already  lying 
down. 

"  Louis!  "  said  Mme.  Mauperin. 

"  Well?  "  answered  M.  Mauperin,  with  that  accent 
of  indifference,  regret,  and  weariness  of  a  man  who, 
with  his  eyes  still  open,  is  beginning  to  enjoy  the  de- 
light of  the  horizontal  position. 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  asleep " 

"  I  am  not  asleep.    What  is  it?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I  think  Renee  behaved  most  im- 
properly this  evening;  that's  all.  Did  you  notice?  " 

"  No,  I  wasn't  paying  any  attention." 

"  It's  just  a  whim.  There  isn't  the  least  reason  in 
it.  Hasn't  she  said  anything  to  you?  Do  you  know 
anything?  I'm  nowhere — with  all  your  mysteries  and 
secrets.  I'm  always  the  last  to  know  about  things. 
It's  quite  different  with  you — you  are  told  everything. 
It's  very  fortunate  that  I  was  not  born  jealous,  don't 
you  think  so?  " 

M.  Mauperin  pulled  the  sheet  up  over  his  shoulder 
without  answering. 

''  You  certainly  are  asleep,"  continued  Mme.  Mau- 
50 


Renee  Mauperin 


perin  in  the  sharp,  disappointed  tone  of  a  woman  who 
is  expecting  a  parry  for  her  attack. 

"  I  told  you  I  wasn't  asleep." 

"  Then  you  surely  don't  understand.  Oh,  these  in- 
telligent men — it's  curious.  It  concerns  you  though, 
too;  it's  your  business  quite  as  much  as  mine.  This 
is  another  marriage  fallen  through — do  you  under- 
stand? A  marriage  that  was  most  suitable — money — 
good  family — everything.  I  know  what  these  hesi- 
tations mean.  We  may  as  well  give  up  all  idea  of  it. 
Henri  was  talking  to  me  about  it  this  evening;  the 
young  man  hadn't  said  anything  to  him;  of  course, 
he's  too  well-bred  for  that.  But  Henri  is  quite  per- 
suaded that  he's  drawing  out  of  it.  One  can  always 
tell  in  matters  of  this  kind ;  people  have  a  way  of " 

"  Well,  let  him  draw  out  of  it  then;  what  do  you 
want  me  to  say?  "  M.  Mauperin  sat  straight  up  and 
put  his  two  hands  on  his  thighs.  "  Let  him  go.  There 
are  plenty  of  young  men  like  Reverchon;  he  is  not 
unique,  we  can  find  others;  while  girls  like  my  daugh- 
ter  " 

"Good  heavens!  Your  daughter — your  daugh- 
ter!" 

"  You  don't  do  her  justice,  Therese." 

"I?  Oh,  yes,  I  do;  but  I  see  her  as  she  is  and 
not  with  your  eyes.  She  has  her  faults,  and  great 
faults,  too,  which  you  have  encouraged — yes,  you. 
She  is  as  heedless  and  full  of  freaks  as  a  child  of  ten. 

51 


Renee  Mauperin 


If  you  imagine  that  it  doesn't  worry  me — her  unrea- 
sonableness, her  uncertain  moods,  and  so  many  other 
absurdities  ever  since  we  have  been  trying  to  get  her 
married!  And  then  her  way  of  criticising  every  one 
to  whom  we  introduce  her.  She  is  terrible  at  inter- 
views of  this  kind.  This  makes  about  the  tenth  man 
she  has  sent  about  his  business." 

At  Mme.  Mauperin's  last  words  a  gleam  of  pa- 
ternal vanity  lighted  up  M.  Mauperin's  face. 

"  Yesr  yes,"  he  said,  smiling  at  the  remembrance, 
"  the  fact  is  she  is  diabolically  witty.  Do  you  recol- 
lect her  words  about  that  poor  Prefect:  '  Oh,  he's  a 
regular  old  cock! '  I  remember  how  she  said  it  di- 
rectly she  saw  him." 

"  It  really  is  very  funny,  and  above  all  very  fit  and 
proper.  Jokes  of  this  kind  will  help  her  to  get  mar- 
ried, take  my  word  for  it.  Such  things  will  induce 
other  men  to  come  forward,  don't  you  think  so?  I 
am  quite  certain  that  Renee  must  have  a  reputation 
for  being  a  terror.  A  little  more  of  her  precious  wit 
and  you  will  see  what  proposals  you  will  get  for  your 
daughter!  I  married  Henriette  so  easily!  Renee  is 
my  cross." 

M.  Mauperin  had  picked  up  his  snuff-box  from  the 
table  by  the  side  of  the  bed  and  appeared  to  be  intent 
on'  turning  it  round  between  his  thumb  and  first 
finger. 

"Well,"  continued  Mme.  Mauperin,  "it's  her 
52 


Renee  Mauperin 


own  lookout.  When  she  is  thirty,  when  she  has 
refused  every  one,  and  there  is  no  one  left  who  wants 
her,  in  spite  of  all  her  wit,  her  good  qualities  and 
everything  else,  she  will  have  time  to  reflect  a  little — 
and  you  will,  too." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mme.  Mauperin  gave  M. 
Mauperin  time  enough  to  imagine  that  she  had  fin- 
ished, and  then  changing  her  tone  she  began  again: 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  too,  about  your 
son " 

Hereupon  M.  Mauperin,  whose  head  had  been  bent 
while  his  wife  was  talking,  looked  up,  and  there  was  a 
half  smile  of  mischievous  humour  on  his  face.  In  the 
upper  as  well  as  the  lower  middle  class  there  is  a  cer- 
tain maternal  love  capable  of  rising  to  the  height  of 
passion  and  of  sinking  to  mere  idolatry.  There  are 
mothers  who  in  their  affection  and  love  will  fall  down 
and  worship  their  son.  Theirs  is  not  that  maternal 
love  which  veils  its  own  weaknesses,  which  defends 
its  rights,  is  jealous  of  its  duties,  which  is  careful 
about  the  hierarchy  and  discipline  of  the  family, 
and  which  commands  respect  and  consideration.  The 
child,  brought  near  to  his  mother  by  all  kinds  of 
familiarity,  receives  from  her  attentions  which  are 
more  like  homage,  and  caresses  in  which  there  is  a 
certain  amount  of  servility.  All  the  mother's  dreams 
are  centred  in  him,  for  he  is  not  only  the  heir  but  the 
whole  future  of  the  family.  Through  him  the  family 

53 


Renee  Mauperin 


will  reap  the  benefits  of  wealth,  of  all  the  improve- 
ments and  progressive  rise  of  the  bourgeoisie  from 
one  generation  to  another.  The  mother  revels  in 
the  thought  of  what  he  is  and  what  he  will  be.  She 
loves  him  and  is  glorified  herself  in  him.  She  dedi- 
cates all  her  ambitions  to  him  and  worships  him.  This 
son  appears  to  her  a  superior  being,  and  she  is  amazed 
that  he  should  have  been  born  of  her;  she  seems  to  feel 
the  mingled  pride  and  humility  of  the  mother  of  a 
god. 

Mme.  Mauperin  was  a  typical  example  of  one  of 
these  mothers  of  modern  middle-class  life.  The 
merits,  the  features,  the  intellect  of  her  son  were  for 
her  those  of  a  divinity.  His  whole  person,  his  accom- 
plishments, everything  he  said  and  everything  he  did, 
all  was  sacred  to  her.  She  would  spend  her  time  in 
contemplation  of  him;  she  saw  no  one  else  when  he 
was  there.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though  the  whole 
world  began  and  ended  in  her  son.  He  was  in  her 
eyes  perfection  itself,  the  most  intelligent,  the  hand- 
somest, and,  above  all,  the  most  distinguished  of  men. 
He  was  short-sighted  and  wore  an  eye-glass,  but  she 
would  not  even  own  that  he  was  near-sighted. 

When  he  was  there  she  watched  him  talk,  sit  down 
or  walk  about,  and  she  would  smile  at  him  when  his 
back  was  turned.  She  liked  the  very  creases  of  his 
coat.  When  he  was  not  there  she  would  lean  back 
for  a  few  minutes  in  her  arm-chair  and  some  reminis- 

54 


Renee  Mauperin 


cence  of  infinite  sweetness  would  gradually  brighten 
and  soften  her  face.  It  was  as  though  light,  restful- 
ness,  and  peace  had  suddenly  come  to  her;  her  ex- 
pression was  joyous  at  such  times,  her  eyes  were 
looking  at  something  in  the  past,  her  heart  was 
living  over  again  some  happy  moment,  and  if  any 
one  spoke  to  her  she  seemed  to  wake  up  out  of  a 
dream. 

It  was  in  a  certain  measure  hereditary,  this  in- 
tense maternal  love.  Mme.  Mauperin  came  of  a  race 
which  had  always  loved  its  sons  with  a  warm,  violent, 
and  almost  frenzied  love.  The  mothers  in  her  family 
had  been  mothers  with  a  vengeance.  There  was  a 
story  told  of  her  grandmother  in  the  Haute -Marne. 
It  was  said  that  she  had  disfigured  a  child  with  a  burn- 
ing coal  who  had  been  considered  handsomer  than  her 
own  boy. 

At  the  time  of  her  son's  first  ailments  Mme.  Mau- 
perin had  almost  lost  her  reason;  she  had  hated  all 
children  who  were  well,  and  had  hoped  that  God  would 
kill  them  if  her  son  died.  Once  when  he  had  been 
seriously  ill  she  had  been  forty-eight  nights  with- 
out going  to  bed,  and  her  legs  had  swelled  with  fa- 
tigue. When  he  was  about  again  he  had  been  allowed 
anything  and  everything.  If  any  one  came  to  com- 
plain to  her  that  he  had  been  fighting  with  the  vil- 
lage children  she  would  say  feelingly:  "Poor  little 
dear!  "  As  the  boy  grew  up  his  mother's  spirit  pre- 
55 


Renee  Mauperin 


ceded  him  on  his  walk  through  life,  strewing  his 
pathway  with  hope  as  he  emerged  into  manhood.  She 
thought  of  all  the  heiresses  in  the  neighbourhood 
whose  age  would  be  suitable  to  his.  She  used  to  imag- 
ine him  visiting  at  all  the  country-houses,  and  she 
saw  him  on  horseback,  riding  to  the  meet  in  a  red 
coat.  She  used  to  be  fairly  dazzled  by  all  her  dreams 
of  the  future. 

Then  came  the  time  when  he  went  away  to  col- 
lege, the  time  when  she  had  to  separate  from  him. 
Mme.  Mauperin  struggled  for  three  months  to  keep 
her  son,  to  have  him  educated  at  home  by  a  tutor,  but 
M.  Mauperin  was  resolute  on  this  score.  All  that 
Mme.  Mauperin  could  obtain  from  him  was  the  per- 
mission to  select  the  college  for  her  son.  She  chose 
one  with  the  mildest  discipline  possible,  one  of  those 
colleges  for  the  children  of  wealthy  parents,  where 
there  is  no  severity,  where  the  boys  are  allowed  to  eat 
pastry  when  they  are  taking  their  walks,  and  where 
the  professors  believe  in  more  theatrical  rehearsals 
than  punishments.  During  the  seven  years  he  was 
there,  Mme.  Mauperin  never  missed  a  single  day  go- 
ing from  Saint-Denis  to  see  him  during  the  recrea- 
tion hour.  Rain,  cold,  fatigue,  illness,  nothing  pre- 
vented her.  In  the  parlour  or  in  the  courtyard  the 
other  mothers  pointed  her  out  to  each  other.  The  boy 
would  kiss  her,  take  the  cakes  she  had  brought  him, 
and  then,  telling  her  he  had  a  lesson  to  finish  learn- 

56 


Renee  Mauperin 


ing,  he  would  hurry  back  to  his  games.  It  was  quite 
enough  for  his  mother,  though,  for  she  had  seen  him 
and  he  was  well.  She  was  always  thinking  about  his 
health.  He  was  weighed  down  with  flannel,  and  in 
the  holidays  she  fed  him  well  with  meat,  giving  him  all 
the  gravy  from  underdone  beef  so  that  he  should  grow 
strong  and  tall.  She  bought  him  a  small  mat  to  sit 
on  at  school  because  the  forms  were  so  hard.  There 
were  separate  bed-rooms  for  the  pupils,  and  Mme. 
Mauperin  furnished  her  son's  like  a  man's  room.  At 
twelve  years  of  age  he  had  a  rosewood  dressing-table 
and  chest  of  drawers  of  his  own.  The  boy  became  a 
young  man,  the  young  man  left  college,  and  Mme. 
Mauperin's  passion  for  him  increased  with  all  that 
satisfaction  which  a  mother  feels  in  a  tall  son  when  his 
looks  begin  to  change  and  his  beard  makes  its  first  ap- 
pearance. Forgetting  all  about  the  tradespeople 
whose  bills  she  had  paid,  she  was  amazed  at  the  style  in 
which  her  son  dressed,  at  his  boots,  and  the  way  in 
which  he  did  his  hair.  There  was  a  certain  elegance  of 
taste  in  everything  that  he  liked,  in  his  luxurious 
habits,  in  his  ways,  and  in  his  whole  life,  to  which  she 
bowed  down  in  astonishment  and  delight,  as  though 
she  herself  were  not  the  mainspring  of  it  all  and  his 
cashier.  Her  son's  valet  did  not  seem  to  her  like  an 
ordinary  domestic;  his  horse  was  not  merely  a  horse, 
it  was  her  son's  horse.  When  her  son  went  out  she 
gave  orders  that  she  should  be  told  so  that  she  might 

57 


Renee  Mauperin 

have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  get  into  the  car- 
riage and  drive  away. 

Every  day  she  was  more  and  more  taken  up  with 
this  son.  She  had  no  diversions,  nothing  to  occu- 
py her  imagination;  she  did  not  read,  and  had  grown 
old  living  with  a  husband  who  had  brought  her  no 
love  and  whom  she  had  always  felt  to  be  quite  apart 
from  her,  engrossed  as  he  had  ever  been  in  his  studies, 
politics,  and  business.  She  had  no  one  left  with  her 
but  a  daughter  to  whom  she  had  never  given  her 
whole  heart,  and  so  she  had  ended  by  devoting  her  life 
to  Henri's  interests  and  putting  all  her  vanity  into  his 
future.  And  her  one  thought — the  thought  which  oc- 
cupied every  hour  of  her  days  and  nights,  her  fixed 
idea — was  the  marriage  of  this  adored  son.  She  want- 
ed him  to  marry  well,  to  make  a  match  which  should 
be  rich  enough  and  brilliant  enough  to  make  up  to 
her  and  repay  her  for  all  the  dulness  and  obscurity  of 
her  own  existence,  for  her  life  of  economy  and  soli- 
tude, for  all  her  own  privations  as  wife  and  mother. 

"  Do  you  even  know  your  son's  age,  M.  Mau- 
perin? "  continued  Mme.  Mauperin. 

"  Henri,  why,  my  dear,  Henri  must  be —  He 
was  born  in  1826,  wasn't  he?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  just  like  a  father  to  ask!  Yes,  1826, 
the  1 2th  of  July,  1826." 

"  Well,  then,  he  is  twenty-nine.  Fancy  that  now, 
he  is  twenty-nine! " 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  And  you  fold  your  arms  and  take  things  easily! 
You  don't  trouble  in  the  least  about  his  future!  You 
say,  '  Fancy  that  now,  he's  twenty-nine ' — just  like 
that,  quite  calmly!  Any  other  man  would  stir 
himself  and  look  round.  Henri  isn't  like  his  sister, 
he  wants  to  marry.  Have  you  ever  thought  of  finding 
a  suitable  match  for  him — a  wife?  Oh,  dear,  no,  not 
any  more  than  for  the  King  of  Prussia,  of  course  not ! 
It's  just  the  same  as  it  was  for  your  elder  daughter. 
I  should  like  to  know  what  you  did  towards  that  mar- 
riage? Whether  she  found  any  one  or  not,  it  appeared 
to  be  all  the  same  to  you.  How  I  did  have  to  urge 
you  on  to  do  anything  in  the  matter!  Oh,  you  can 
wipe  your  hands  of  that  marriage;  your  daughter's 
happiness  can't  weigh  much  on  your  conscience,  I 
should  think!  If  I  had  not  been  there  you  would 
have  found  a  husband  like  M.  Davarande,  shouldn't 
you?  A  model  husband,  who  adores  Henriette — and 
such  a  gentleman!  " 

Mme.  Mauperin  blew  out  the  candle  and  got  into 
bed  by  the  side  of  M.  Mauperin,  who  had  turned  over 
with  his  face  towards  the  wall. 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on,  stretching  herself  out  full 
length  under  the  sheets,  "  a  model  husband!  Do  you 
imagine  that  there  are  many  sons-in-law  who  would 
be  so  attentive  to  us?  He  would  do  anything  to  give 
us  pleasure.  You  invite  him  to  dinner  and  give  him 
meat  on  fasting-days  and  he  never  says  a  word.  Then, 

59 


Renee  Mauperin 

too,  he  is  so  obliging.  I  wanted  to  match  some  wools 
for  my  tapestry-work  the  other  day " 

"  My  dear,  what  is  it  we  were  talking  about  ?  I 
must  tell  you  that  I  should  like  to  get  a  bit  of  sleep 
to-night.  You  began  with  your  daughter,  and  now 
you've  started  the  chapter  of  M.  Davarande's  perfec- 
tions. I  know  that  chapter — there's  enough  to  last 
till  to-morrow  morning.  Come  now,  you  want  your 
son  to  marry,  don't  you?  That's  it,  isn't  it?  Well, 
I'm  quite  willing — let's  get  him  married." 

"  Just  as  though  I  could  count  on  you  for  getting 
him  married!  A  lot  of  trouble  you'll  go  to  about  it; 
you  are  the  right  sort  of  man  to  inconvenience  your- 
self for  anything." 

"  Oh,  come,  come,  my  dear,  that's  unjust.  It 
seems  to  me  that  about  a  fortnight  ago  I  showed  you 
what  I  was  capable  of.  To  go  and  listen  to  the  dullest 
of  operas,  to  eat  ices  at  night,  which  is  a  thing  I 
detest,  and  to  talk  about  the  weather  with  a  provin- 
cial man  who  shouted  about  his  daughter's  dowry  on 
the  boulevards.  If  you  don't  call  that  inconveniencing 
myself!  I  suppose  you'll  say  it  didn't  come  to  any- 
thing? Was  it  my  fault,  though,  if  the  gentleman 
wanted  '  a  handsome,  manly  husband'  as  he  put  it,  for 
his  daughter?  Is  it  my  fault  and  mine  only  if  our 
son  has  not  the  frame  of  a  Hercules?  " 

"  M.  Mauperin " 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is,  of  course.  I  am  to  blame  for 
60 


Renee  Mauperin 


everything,  according  to  you.    You  would  make  me 

pass  everywhere  for  a  selfish " 

"  Oh,  you  are  like  all  men!  " 
"  Thank  you  on  behalf  of  them  all." 
"  No,  it's  in  your  character — it's  no  good  blaming 
you.  It's  only  the  mothers  who  worry.  Ah,  if  you 
were  only  like  I  am;  if  at  every  instant  you  were 
thinking  of  what  might  happen  to  a  young  man.  I 
know  Henri  is  sensible;  but  a  young  man's  fancy  is 
so  quickly  caught.  It  might  be  some  worthless  crea- 
ture— some  bad  lot — one  never  knows — such  things 
happen  every  day.  I  should  go  mad!  What  do  you 
say  to  sounding  Mme.  Rosieres?  Shall  we?  " 

There  was  no  reply,  and  Mme.  Mauperin  was 
obliged  to  resign  herself  to  silence.  She  turned  over 
and  over,  but  could  not  sleep  until  daylight  appeared. 


61 


VI 

"  AH,  what's  that  mean?  Where  in  the  world  arc 
you  going?  "  asked  M.  Mauperin  in  the  morning  as 
Mme.  Mauperin  stood  at  the  glass  putting  on  a  black 
lace  cape. 

"  Where  am  I  going?  "  said  Mme.  Mauperin,  fas- 
tening the  cape  to  her  shoulder  with  one  of  the  two 
pins  she  was  holding  in  her  mouth.  "  Is  my  cape  too 
low  down?  Just  look." 

"  No." 

"  Pull  it  a  little." 

"  How  fine  you  are!  "  said  M.  Mauperin,  stepping 
back  and  examining  his  wife's  dress. 

She  was  wearing  a  black  dress  of  the  most  ele- 
gant style,  in  excellent  taste  though  somewhat  severe 
looking. 

"  I  am  going  to  Paris." 

"Oh!  you  are  going  to  Paris?  What  are  you 
going  to  do  in  Paris?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  how  you  do  worry  always  with  your 
questions:  'Where  are  you  going?  What  are  you 
going  to  do?  '  You  really  want  to  know,  do  you?  " 

62 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Well,  I  was  only  asking  you- 


"  My  dear,  I  am  going  to  confession,"  said  Mme. 
Mauperin,  looking  down. 

M.  Mauperin  was  speechless.  His  wife  in  the  early 
days  of  her  married  life  had  gone  regularly  on  Sun- 
days to  church.  Later  she  had  accompanied  her 
daughters  to  their  catechism  class,  and  these  were 
all  the  religious  duties  he  had  ever  known  her  to  ac- 
complish. For  the  last  ten  years  it  seemed  to  him  that 
she  had  been  as  indifferent  as  he  was  about  such 
things — naturally  and  frankly  indifferent.  When  the 
first  moment  of  stupefaction  had  passed,  he  opened  his 
mouth  to  speak,  looked  at  her,  said  nothing,  and,  turn- 
ing suddenly  on  his  heels,  went  out  of  the  room  hum- 
ming a  kind  of  air  to  which  music  and  words  were 
about  all  that  were  missing. 

On  arriving  at  a  handsome,  cheerful-looking  house 
in  the  Rue  de  la  Madeleine,  Mme.  Mauperin  went 
upstairs  to  the  fourth  story  and  rang  at  a  door  where 
there  was  no  attempt  at  any  style.  It  was  opened 
promptly. 

"M.  1'Abbe  Blampoix?" 

"  Yes,  madame,"  answered  a  servant-man  in  black 
livery. 

He  spoke  with  a  Belgian  accent  and  bowed  as  he 
spoke.  He  took  Mme.  Mauperin  across  the  entrance- 
hall,  where  a  faint  odour  was  just  dying  away, 

63 


Renee  Mauperin 


and  through  a  dining-room  flooded  with  sunshine, 
where  the  cloth  was  simply  laid  for  one  person.  Mme. 
Mauperin  then  found  herself  in  a  drawing-room 
decorated  and  scented  with  flowers.  Above  a  harmo- 
nium with  rich  inlaid  work  was  a  copy  of  Correggio's 
"  Night."  On  another  panel,  framed  in  black,  was 
the  Communion  of  Marie  Antoinette  and  of  her  gen- 
darmes at  the  Conciergerie,  lithographed  according  to 
a  story  that  was  told  about  her.  Keepsakes,  a  hun- 
dred little  things  that  might  have  been  New  Year's 
gifts,  filled  the  brackets.  A  small  bronze  statue  of 
Canova's  "  Madeleine  "  was  on  a  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  room. 

The  tapestry  chairs,  each  one  of  a  different  design 
and  piously  worked  by  hand,  were  evidently  presents 
which  devoted  women  had  done  for  the  abbe. 

There  were  men  and  women  waiting  there,  and 
each  by  turn  went  into  the  abbe's  room,  stayed  a 
few  minutes,  then  came  out  again  and  went  away. 
The  last  person  waiting,  a  woman,  stayed  a  long  time, 
and  when  she  came  out  of  the  room  Mme.  Mauperin 
could  not  see  her  face  through  her  double  vett. 

The  abbe  was  standing  by  his  chimney-piece  when 
Mme.  Mauperin  entered.  He  was  holding  apart  the 
flaps  of  his  cassock  like  the  tails  of  a  coat. 

The  Abbe  Blampoix  had  neither  benefice  nor  par- 
ish. He  had  a  large  connection  and  a  specialty:  he 

64 


Renee  Mauperin 


was  the  priest  of  society  people,  of  the  fashionable 
world,  and  of  the  aristocracy.  He  confessed  the  fre- 
quenters of  drawing-rooms,  he  was  the  spiritual  di- 
rector of  well-born  consciences,  and  he  comforted  those 
souls  that  were  worth  the  trouble  of  comforting.  He 
brought  Jesus  Christ  within  reach  of  the  wealthy. 
"  Every  one  has  his  work  to  do  in  the  Lord's  vine- 
yard," he  used  often  to  say,  appearing  to  groan  and 
bend  beneath  the  burden  of  saving  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain,  the  Faubourg  Saint-Honore,  and  the 
Chaussee-d'Antin. 

He  was  a  man  of  common  sense  and  intellect,  an 
obliging  sort  of  priest  who  adapted  everything  to  the 
precept,  "  The  letter  killeth,  and  the  spirit  maketh  alive." 
He  was  tolerant  and  intelligent,  could  comprehend 
things  and  could  smile.  He  measured  faith  out  ac- 
cording to  the  temperament  of  the  people  and  only 
gave  it  in  small  doses.  He  made  the  penances  light, 
he  loosened  the  bonds  of  the  cross  and  sprinkled  the 
way  of  salvation  with  sand.  From  the  hard,  unlovely, 
stern  religion  of  the  poor  he  had  evolved  a  pleasant 
religion  for  the  rich;  it  was  easy,  charming,  elastic, 
adapting  itself  to  things  and  to  people,  to  all  the  ways 
and  manners  of  society,  to  its  customs  and  habits,  and 
even  to  its  prejudices.  Of  the  idea  of  God  he  had 
made  something  quite  comfortable  and  elegant. 

The  Abbe  Blampoix  had  all  the  fascination  of  the 
priest  who  is  well  educated,  talented,  and  accom- 

65  Vol.  12— D 


Renee  Mauperin 


plished.  He  could  talk  well  during  confession,  and 
could  put  some  wit  into  his  exhortations  and  a  cer- 
tain graciousness  into  his  unction.  He  knew  how  to 
move  and  interest  his  hearers.  He  was  well  versed  in 
words  that  touch  the  heart  and  in  speeches  that  are 
flattering  and  pleasing  to  the  ear.  His  voice  was  mu- 
sical and  his  style  flowery.  He  called  the  devil  "  the 
Prince  of  evil,"  and  the  eucharist  "  the  Divine  ali- 
ment "\  He  abounded  in  periphrases  as  highly  col- 
oured as  sacred  pictures.  He  talked  of  Rossini, 
quoted  Racine,  and  spoke  of  "  the  Bois  "  for  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne.  He  talked  of  divine  love  in  words  which 
were  somewhat  disconcerting,  of  present-day  vices 
with  piquant  details,  and  of  society  in  society  lan- 
guage. Occasionally,  expressions  which  were  in 
vogue  and  which  had  only»recently  been  invented,  ex- 
pressions only  known  among  worldly  people,  would 
slip  into  his  spiritual  consultations  and  had  the  same 
effect  as  extracts  from  a  newspaper  in  an  ascetic  book. 
There  was  a  pleasant  odour  of  the  century  about  him. 
His  priestly  robe  seemed  to  be  impregnated  with  all 
the  pretty  little  sins  which  had  approached  it.  He  was 
very  well  up  and  always  to  the  point  with  regard  to 
subtle  temptations,  admirably  shrewd,  keen,  and  tact- 
ful in  his  discussions  on  sensuality.  Women  doted 
on  him. 

His  first  step,  his  debut  in  the  ecclesiastical  career, 
had  been  distinguished  by  a  veritable  seduction  and 

66 


Renee  Mauperin 

capturing  of  souls,  by  a  success  which  had  been  a  per- 
fect triumph  and  indeed  almost  a  scandal.  After 
taking  the  catechism  classes  for  a  year  in  the  parish 

of  B ,  the  archbishop  had  appointed  him  to  other 

work,  putting  another  priest  in  his  place.  The  result 
of  this  was  a  rebellion,  as  all  the  girls  who  had  attended 
the  catechism  classes  refused  to  speak  or  listen  to  the 
newcomer.  They  had  lost  their  young  hearts  and 
heads,  and  there  were  tears  shed  by  all  the  flock,  a 
regular  riot  of  wailing  and  sorrow,  which  before  long 
changed  into  revolt.  The  elder  girls,  the  chief  mem- 
bers of  the  society,  kept  up  the  struggle  several 
months.  They  agreed  together  not  to  go  to  the 
classes,  and  they  went  so  far  as  to  refuse  to  hand  over 
to  the  cure  the  cash-box  which  had  been  intrusted 
to  them.  It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  they 
were  appeased. 

The  success  which  all  this  augured  to  the  Abbe 
Blampoix  had  not  failed  him.  His  fame  had  quickly 
spread.  That  great  force,  Fashion,  which  in  Paris 
affects  everything,  even  a  priest's  cassock,  had  taken 
him  up  and  launched  him.  People  came  to  him 
from  all  parts.  The  ordinary,  commonplace  confes- 
sions were  heard  by  other  priests,  but  all  the  choice 
sins  were  brought  to  him.  Around  him  was  always 
to  be  heard  a  hubbub  of  great  names,  of  large  for- 
tunes, of  pretty  contritions,  and  the  rustling  of  beau- 
tiful dresses.  Mothers  consulted  him  about  taking 

67 


Renee  Mauperin 


their  daughters  out,  and  the  daughters  were  instruct- 
ed by  him  before  going  into  society.  He  was  ap- 
pealed to  for  permission  to  wear  low-necked  dresses, 
and  he  was  the  man  who  regulated  the  modesty  of 
ball  costumes  and  the  propriety  of  reading  certain 
books.  He  was  also  asked  for  titles  of  novels  and 
lists  of  moral  plays.  He  prepared  candidates  for  con- 
firmation and  led  them  on  to  marriage.  He  baptized 
children  and  listened  to  the  confession  of  the  adulter- 
ous in  thought.  Wives  who  considered  themselves 
slighted  or  misunderstood  came  to  him  to  lament  over 
the  materiality  of  their  husbands,  and  he  supplied  them 
with  a  little  idealism  to  take  back  to  their  homes.  All 
who  were  in  trouble  or  despair  had  recourse  to  him, 
and  he  ordered  a  trip  to  Italy  for  them,  with  music 
and  painting  for  diversions  and  a  good  confession  in 
Rome. 

Wives  who  were  separated  from  their  husbands  ad- 
dressed themselves  to  him  when  they  wanted  to  return 
quietly  to  their  home.  His  conciliations  came  between 
the  love  of  wives  and  the  jealousy  of  mothers-in-law. 
He  found  governesses  for  the  mothers  and  lady's  maids 
of  forty  years  of  age  for  young  wives.  Newly  married 
wives  learned  from  him  to  secure  their  happiness  and 
to  keep  their  husband's  affection  by  their  discreet  and 
dainty  toilettes,  by  cleanliness  and  care,  by  the  spot- 
lessness  and  elegance  of  their  linen.  "  My  dear  child," 
he  would  say  sometimes,  "  a  wife  should  have  just  a 

68 


Renee  Mauperin 


faint  perfume  of  the  lorette  about  her."  His  experi- 
ence intervened  in  questions  of  the  hygiene  of  mar- 
riage. He  was  consulted  on  such  matters  as  maternity 
and  pregnancy.  He  would  decide  whether  a  wife 
should  become  a  mother  and  whether  a  mother  should 
suckle  her  child. 

This  vogue  and  role,  the  dealings  that  he  had  with 
women  and  the  possession  of  all  their  secrets,  so  many 
confidences  and  so  much  knowledge  on  all  subjects, 
his  intercourse  of  all  kinds  with  the  dignitaries  and 
lady-treasurers  of  various  societies,  and  the  acquaint- 
ance he  had,  thanks  to  the  steps  he  was  obliged  to 
take  in  the  interests  of  charity,  with  all  the  important 
personages  of  Paris,  all  the  influence  that,  as  a  clever, 
discreet,  and  obliging  priest,  he  had  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining, had  given  to  the  Abbe  Blampoix  an  im- 
mense power  and  authority  which  radiated  silently 
and  unseen.  Worldly  interests  and  social  ambitions 
were  confessed  to  him.  Nearly  all  the  marriage- 
able individuals  in  society  were  recommended  to 
this  priest,  who  professed  no  political  preferences, 
who  mixed  with  every  one,  and  who  was  admirably 
placed  for  bringing  families  together,  for  uniting 
houses,  arranging  matches  of  expediency  or  balancing 
social  positions,  pairing  off  money  with  money,  or 
joining  an  ancient  title  to  a  newly  made  fortune.  It 
was  as  though  marriages  in  Paris  had  an  occult  Provi- 
dence in  the  person  of  this  rare  sort  of  man  in  whom 

69 


Renee  Mauperin 


were  blended  the  priest  and  the  lawyer,  the  apostle 
and  the  diplomatist — Fenelon  and  M.  de  Foy.  The 
Abbe  Blampoix  had  an  income  of  sixteen  hundred 
pounds,  the  half  of  which  he  gave  to  the  poor.  He 
had  refused  a  bishopric  for  the  sake  of  remaining  what 
he  was — a  priest. 

"  To  whom  have  I  the  honour,"  began  the  abbe, 
who  appeared  to  be  searching  his  memory  for  a  name. 

"  Mme.  Mauperin,  the  mother  of  Mme.  Dav- 
arande." 

"  Oh,  excuse  me,  madame,  excuse  me.  Your 
family  are  not  persons  whom  one  could  forget.  Do 
sit  down,  please — let  me  give  you  this  arm-chair." 

And  then,  taking  a  seat  himself  with  his  back  to  the 
light,  he  continued: 

"  I  like  to  think  of  that  marriage,  which  gave  me 
the  opportunity  of  making  your  acquaintance — the 
marriage  of  your  daughter  with  M.  Davarande.  You 
and  I,  madame,  you,  with  the  devotion  of  a  mother, 
and  I — well,  with  just  the  feeble  insight  of  a  humble 
priest — brought  about  a  truly  Christian  marriage,  a 
marriage  which  has  satisfied  the  needs  of  the  dear 
child  as  regards  her  religion  and  her  affection  and 
which  was  also  in  accordance  with  her  social  position. 
Mme.  Davarande  is  one  of  my  model  penitents;  I  am 
thoroughly  satisfied  with  her.  M.  Davarande  is  an 
excellent  young  man  who  shares  the  religious  beliefs 
of  his  wife,  and  that  is  a  rare  thing  nowadays.  One's 

70 


Renee  Mauperin 

mind  is  easy  about  such  happy  and  superior  young 
couples,  and  I  am  quite  convinced  beforehand  that 
you  have  not  come  about  either  of  these  dear  chil- 
dren  " 

"  You  are  right.  I  am  quite  satisfied  as  regards 
them,  and  their  happiness  is  a  great  joy  in  my  life. 
It  is  such  a  responsibility  to  get  one's  children  mar- 
ried. No,  monsieur,  it  is  not  for  them  that  I  have 
come;  it  is  for  myself." 

"  For  yourself — madame?  " 

And  the  abbe  glanced  quickly  at  her  with  an  ex- 
pression which  softened  just  as  quickly. 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  time  brings  many  changes.  One 
has  a  hundred  things  to  think  about  before  one 
reaches  my  age.  There  are  the  people  one  meets, 
and  society  ties,  and  all  that  is  very  entertaining.  We 
give  ourselves  up  to  such  things,  enjoy  them  and 
count  on  them.  We  fancy  we  shall  never  need  any- 
thing beyond.  Well,  now,  monsieur,  I  have  reached 
the  age  when  one  does  need  something  beyond.  You 
will  understand  me,  I  am  sure.  I  have  begun  to  feel 
the  emptiness  of  the  world.  Nothing  interests  me, 
and  I  should  like  to  come  back  to  what  I  had  given 
up.  I  know  how  indulgent  and  charitable  you  are. 
I  need  your  counsel  and  your  hand  to  lead  me  back 
to  duties  that  I  have  neglected  far  too  long,  although 
I  have  always  remembered  and  respected  them.  You 
must  know  how  wretched  I  am,  monsieur." 


Renee  Mauperin 

While  speaking  thus,  with  that  easy  flow  of  words 
so  natural  to  a  woman,  and  especially  to  a  Parisian 
woman,  and  which  in  Parisian  slang  is  known  as  bagou, 
Mme.  Mauperin,  who  had  avoided  meeting  the 
priest's  eyes,  which  she  had  felt  fixed  on  her,  now 
glanced  mechanically  at  a  light  which  was  being 
stirred  by  the  abbe's  hands  and  which  flamed  up  under 
a  ray  of  sunshine,  shining  brightly  in  the  midst  of  this 
room — the  severe-looking,  solemn,  cold  room  of  a 
man  of  business.  This  light  came  from  a  casket  con- 
taining some  diamonds  with  which  the  abbe  was  idly 
playing. 

"Ah,  you  are  looking  at  this!"  said  the  abbe, 
catching  Mme.  Mauperin's  eye  and  answering  her 
thoughts  instead  of  her  phrases.  "  You  are  surprised 
to  see  it,  are  you  not?  Yes,  a  jewel-case,  a  case  of 
diamonds — and  just  look  at  them — rather  good  ones, 
too."  He  passed  her  the  necklace.  "  It's  odd  for 
that  to  be  here,  isn't  it?  But  what  was  I  to  do?  This 
is  our  modern  society.  We  are  obliged  to  see  a  little 
of  all  sorts.  Such  a  pitiful  scene!  I  don't  feel  myself 
again  yet,  after  it — such  sobs  and  tears!  Perhaps- you 
heard — a  poor  young  wife  throwing  herself  down  here 
at  my  feet — a  mother  of  a  family,  madame!  Alas! 
that's  how  the  world  is — this  is  what  the  love  of  finery 
and  the  fondness  of  admiration  will  lead  to.  People 
spend  and  spend,  until  finally  they  can  only  pay  the  in- 
terest of  what  they  owe  at  the  shops.  Yes,  indeed, 

72 


Renee  Mauperin 


madame,  that  happens  constantly.  I  could  mention 
the  shops.  People  hope  to  be  able  to  pay  the  capi- 
tal some  day;  they  count  on  a  son-in-law  to  whom  they 
can  tell  everything  and  who  will  only  be  too  happy 
to  pay  his  mother-in-law's  debts.  But  in  the  mean- 
time the  shops  get  impatient;  and  at  last  they  threaten 
to  tell  the  husband  everything.  Then — oh,  just  think 
of  the  anguish  then!  Do  you  know  that  this  woman 
talked  just  now  of  throwing  herself  into  the  river?  I 
had  to  promise  to  find  her  twelve  hundred  pounds. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  though — a  thousand  times.  Here 
I  am  talking  of  my  own  affairs.  Let  us  go  back  to 
yours.  You  had  another  daughter — a  charming  girl. 
I  prepared  her  for  confirmation.  Let  me  see,  now, 
what  was  her  name?  " 

"  Renee." 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  a  very  intelligent  child,  very 
quick — quite  an  exceptional  character.  Tell  me  now, 
isn't  she  married?  " 

"  No,  monsieur,  and  it's  a  great  trouble  to  me. 
You've  no  idea  what  a  headstrong  girl  she  is.  She 
is  nothing  like  her  sister.  It's  very  unfortunate  for 
a  mother  to  have  a  daughter  with  a  character  like 
hers.  I  would  rather  she  were  a  little  less  intelligent. 
We  have  found  most  suitable  matches  for  her,  and 
she  refuses  them  in  the  most  thoughtless,  foolish 
way.  There  was  another  one  yesterday.  And  her 
father  spoils  her  so." 

73 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Ah,  that's  a  pity.  You  have  no  idea  what  a  ma- 
ternal affection  we  have  for  these  dear  children  that 
we  have  led  to  Christ.  But  you  don't  say  anything 
about  your  son,  a  delightful  young  man,  so  good- 
looking — and  just  the  age  to  marry,  it  seems  to 
me " 

"  Do  you  know  him,  monsieur?  " 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him  once  at  his 
sister's,  at  Mme.  Davarande's,  when  I  went  to  see 
her  during  her  illness;  those  are  the  only  visits  we 
pay,  you  know — visits  to  the  sick.  Then,  too,  I  have 
heard  all  sorts  of  good  reports  about  him.  You  are 
a  fortunate  mother,  madame.  Your  son  goes  to 
church,  and  at  Easter  he  took  communion  with  the 
Jesuit  Fathers.  He  has  not  told  you,  probably,  but  he 
was  one  of  those  society  men,  true  Christians,  who 
waited  nearly  all  night  to  get  to  the  confessional — 
there  was  such  a  crowd.  Yes,  people  do  not  believe  it, 
but,  thank  God,  it  is  quite  true.  Some  of  the  young 
men  waited  until  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  con- 
fess. I  need  not  tell  you  how  deeply  the  Church  is 
touched  by  such  zeal,  how  thankful  she  is  to  -those 
who  give  her  this  consolation  and  who  pay  her  this 
homage  in  these  sad  times  of  demoralization  and  in- 
credulity. We  are  drawn  towards  young  men  who 
set  such  a  good  example  and  who  are  so  willing  to 
do  what  is  right,  and  we  are  always  ready  to  give 
them  what  help  we  can  and  to  use  any  influence 

74 


Renee  Mauperin 


that  we  may  have  in  certain  families  in  their 
favour." 

"  Oh,  monsieur,  you  are  too  good.  And  our  grati- 
tude— mine  and  my  son's — if  only  you  would  interest 
yourself  on  his  behalf.  What  a  happy  thought  it  was 
to  come  to  you !  You  see  I  came  to  you  as  a  woman, 
but  as  a  mother  too.  My  son  is  angelic — and  then, 
monsieur,  you  can  do  so  much." 

The  abbe  shook  his  head  with  a  deprecatory  smile 
of  mingled  modesty  and  melancholy. 

"  No,  madame,  you  overestimate  our  power.  We 
are  far  from  all  that  you  say.  We  are  able  to  do 
a  little  good  sometimes,  but  it  is  with  great  diffi- 
culty. If  only  you  knew  how  little  a  priest  can  do  in 
these  days.  People  are  afraid  of  our  influence;  they 
do  not  care  to  meet  us  outside  the  church,  nor  to 
speak  to  us  except  in  the  confessional.  You  your- 
self, madame,  would  be  surprised  if  your  confessor 
ventured  to  speak  to  you  about  your  daily  conduct. 
Thanks  to  the  deplorable  prejudices  of  people  with 
regard  to  us,  every  one's  object  is  to  keep  us  at  a  dis- 
tance and  to  stand  on  the  defensive." 

"  Oh,  dear,  why,  it  is  one  o'clock — and  I  saw  that 
your  table  was  laid  when  I  came.  I'm  quite  ashamed 
of  myself.  May  I  come  again  in  a  few  days?  " 

"  My  luncheon  can  always  wait,"  said  the  Abbe 
Blampoix,  and  turning  to  a  desk  covered  with  papers 
at  his  side,  he  made  a  sign  to  Mme.  Mauperin  to  sit 

75 


Renee  Mauperin 


down  again.  There  was  a  moment's  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  rustle  of  papers  which  the  abbe  was  turn- 
ing over.  Finally  he  drew  out  a  visiting-card,  turned 
down  at  the  corner,  from  under  a  pile  of  papers,  held 
it  to  the  light,  and  read: 

"  Twelve  thousand  pounds  in  deeds  and  prefer- 
ence shares.  Six  hundred  pounds  a  year  from  the  day 
of  marriage;  father  and  mother  dead.  Twenty-four 
thousand  pounds  on  the  death  of  some  uncles  and 
aunts  who  will  never  marry.  Young  girl,  nineteen, 
charming,  much  prettier  than  she  imagines  herself  to 
be.  You  see,"  said  the  abbe,  putting  the  card  back 
among  the  papers.  "  Think  it  over.  Anyhow,  you 
will  see.  I  have,  too,  at  this  very  moment  a  thousand 
pounds  a  year  on  her  marriage — an  orphan —  Ah,  no, 
that  would  not  do — her  guardian  wants  to  find  some 
one  who  is  influential.  He  is  sub-referendary  judge 
on  the  Board  of  Finance  and  he  will  only  marry  his 
ward  to  a  son-in-law  who  can  get  him  promoted. 
Ah,  wait  a  minute — this  would  do,  perhaps,"  and  he 
read  aloud  from  some  notes :  "  Twenty-two  years  of 
age,  not  pretty,  accomplished,  intelligent,  dresses  well, 
father  sixty  thousand  pounds,  three  children,  substan- 
tial fortune.  He  owns  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Prov- 
ence, where  the  offices  of  the  Security  are,  an  estate 
in  the  Orne,  eight  thousand  pounds  in  the  Credit 
Foncier.  Rather  an  opinionated  sort  of  man,  of  Por- 
tuguese descent.  The  mother  is  a  mere  cipher  in 

76 


Renee  Mauperin 

the  house.  There  is  no  family,  and  the  father  would 
be  annoyed  if  you  went  to  see  his  relatives.  I  am 
not  keeping  anything  back,  as  you  see;  a  family  din- 
ner party  once  a  year  and  that  is  all.  The  father  will 
give  twelve  thousand  pounds  for  the  dowry;  he  wants 
his  daughter  to  live  in  the  same  house. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  abbe,  looking  through  his 
notes,  "  that's  all  I  see  that  would  do  for  you  just  now. 
Will  you  talk  it  over  with  your  son,  madame,  and  con- 
sult your  husband?  I  am  quite  at  your  service.  When 
I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  here  again,  will  you 
bring  with  you  just  a  few  figures,  a  little  note  that 
would  give  me  an  idea  of  your  intentions  with  regard 
to  settling  your  son.  And  bring  your  daughter  with 
you.  I  should  be  delighted  to  see  the  dear  child 
again." 

"  Would  you  mind  fixing  some  time  when  I  should 
not  disturb  you  quite  so  much  as  I  have  done  to-day, 
monsieur?  " 

"  Oh,  madame,  my  time  belongs  to  every  one  who 
has  need  of  me,  and  I  am  only  too  much  honoured. 
The  thing  is  that  in  a  fortnight's  time — if  you  came 
then,  I  should  be  in  the  country,  and  I  only  come 
one  day  a  week  to  Paris,  then.  Yes,  it's  a  sheer  neces- 
sity, and  so  I  have  had  to  make  up  my  mind  to  it. 
By  the  end  of  the  winter  I  get  so  worn  out;  I  have 
so  much  to  attend  to,  and  then  these  four  flights  of 
stairs  kill  me.  But  what  am  I  to  do?  I  am  obliged 

77 


Renee  Mauperin 


to  pay  in  some  way  for  the  right  of  having  my  chapel, 
for  the  precious  privilege  of  being  able  to  have  mass 
in  my  own  home.  No  one  could  sleep  over  a  chapel, 
you  see.  Ah,  an  idea  has  just  struck  me:  why  should 
you  not  come  to  see  me  in  the  country — at  Colombes? 
It  would  be  a  little  excursion.  I  have  plenty  of  fruit, 
and  I  take  a  landowner's  pride  in  my  fruit.  I  could 
offer  you  luncheon,  a  very  informal  luncheon.  Will 
you  come,  madame — and  your  daughter?  Would 
your  son  give  me  the  pleasure  of  his  company  too?  " 


VII 

A  QUARTER  of  an  hour  later  a  footman  in  a  red 
coat  opened  the  door  of  a  flat  on  a  first  floor  in  the 
Rue  Taitbout  in  answer  to  Mme.  Mauperin's  ring. 

"  Good-morning,  Georges.    Is  my  son  in?  " 

"  Yes,  madame,  monsieur  is  there." 

Mme.  Mauperin  had  smiled  on  her  son's  domes- 
tic, and  as  she  walked  along  she  smiled  on  the  rooms, 
on  the  furniture,  and  on  everything  she  saw.  When 
she  entered  the  study  her  son  was  writing  and  smok- 
ing at  the  same  time. 

"  Well,  I  never! "  he  exclaimed,  taking  his  cigar 
out  of  his  mouth  and  leaning  his  head  against  the  back 
of  his  chair  for  his  mother  to  kiss  him.  "  It's  you, 
is  it,  mamma?  "  he  went  on,  continuing  to  smoke. 
"  You  didn't  say  a  word  about  coming  to  Paris  to- 
day. What  brings  you  here?  " 

"  Oh,  I  had  some  shopping  and  some  visits  to 
pay — you  know  I  am  always  behind.  How  comfort- 
able you  are  here!  " 

"  Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure,  you  hadn't  seen  my  new 
arrangements." 

79 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Dear  me,  how  well  you  do  arrange  everything! 
There's  no  one  like  you,  really.  It  isn't  damp  here 
is  it,  are  you  quite  sure?  "  and  Mme.  Mauperin  put 
her  hand  against  the  wall.  "  Tell  Georges  to  air  the 
room  always  when  you  are  away,  won't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  mother,"  said  Henri  in  a  bored  way,  as 
one  answers  a  child. 

"  Oh,  why  do  you  have  those?  I  don't  like  your 
having  such  things."  Mme.  Mauperin  had  just 
caught  sight  of  two  swords  above  the  bookcase.  "The 
very  sight  of  them!  When  one  thinks — "  and  Mme. 
Mauperin  closed  her  eyes  for  an  instant  and  sat  down. 
"  You  don't  know  how  your  dreadful  bachelor  life 
makes  us  poor  mothers  tremble.  If  you  were  mar- 
ried, it  seems  to  me  that  I  should  not  be  so  wor- 
ried about  you.  I  do  wish  you  were  married, 
Henri!" 

"  I  do,  too,  I  can  assure  you." 

"Really?  Come,  now — mothers,  you  know — well, 
secrets  ought  not  to  be  kept  from  them.  I  am  so 
afraid,  when  I  look  at  you,  handsome  as  you  are,  and 
so  distinguished  and  clever  and  fascinating.  You  are 
just  the  sort  of  man  that  any  one  would  fall  in  love 
with,  and  I'm  so  afraid " 

"Of  what?" 

"  Lest  you  should  have  some  reason  for  not -" 

"  For  not  marrying,  you  mean,  don't  you?  A 
chain — is  that  what  you  mean?  " 

So 


Renee  Mauperin 


Mme.  Mauperin  nodded  and  Henri  burst  out 
laughing. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  mamma,  if  I  had  one,  make  your 
mind  easy,  it  should  be  a  polished  one.  A  man  who  has 
any  respect  for  himself  would  not  wear  any  other." 

"Well,  then,  tell  me  about  Mile.  Herbault.  It 
was  your  fault  that  it  all  came  to  nothing." 

"  Mile.  Herbault?  The  introduction  at  the  Opera 
with  father?  Oh,  no,  it  wasn't  that.  Yes,  yes,  I 
remember,  the  dinner  at  Mme.  Marquisat's,  wasn't 
it — the  last  one?  That  was  a  trap  you  laid  for 
me.  I  must  say  you  are  sweetly  innocent!  I  was 
announced:  '  Mossieu  Henri  Mauperin,'  in  that  grand, 
important  sort  of  way  which  being  interpreted  meant: 
'  Behold  the  future  husband! '  I  found  all  the  candles 
in  the  drawing-room  lighted  up.  The  mistress  of  the 
house,  whom  I  had  seen  just  twice  in  my  life,  over- 
powered me  with  her  smiles;  her  son,  whom  I  did  not 
know  at  all,  shook  hands  with  me.  There  was  a  lady 
with  her  daughter  in  the  room,  they  neither  of  them 
appeared  to  see  me.  My  place  at  dinner  was  next 
the  young  person,  of  course;  a  provincial  family,  their 
money  placed  in  farms,  simple  tastes,  etc.  I  discov- 
ered all  that  before  the  soup  was  finished.  The 
mother,  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  was  keeping 
watch  over  us;  an  impossible  sort  of  mother,  in  such 
a  get-up!  I  asked  the  daughter  whether  she  had  seen 
the  '  Prophet '  at  the  Opera.  '  Yes,  it  was  superb — 
6  81 


Renee  Mauperin 


and  then  there  was  that  wonderful  effect  in  the  third 
act.  Oh,  yes,  that  effect,  that  wonderful  effect.'  She 
hadn't  seen  it  any  more  than  I  had.  A  fibber  to  begin 
with.  I  entertained  myself  with  keeping  her  to  the 
subject,  and  that  made  her  crabby.  We  went  back 
to  the  drawing-room  and  then  the  hostess  began: 
'  What  a  pretty  dress! '  she  said  to  me.  '  Did  you 
notice  it?  Would  you  believe  that  Emmeline  has  had 
that  dress  five  years.  I  can  remember  it.  She  is  so 
careful — so  orderly ! '  '  All  right,'  I  thought  to  my- 
self, '  a  lot  of  miserly  wretches  who  mean  to  take  me 
in.'  " 

"  Do  you  really  think  so?  And  yet,  from  what 
we  were  told  about  them " 

"  A  woman  who  makes  her  dresses  last  five  years! 
That  speaks  for  itself,  that's  quite  enough.  I  can 
picture  the  dowry  hoarded  up  in  a  stocking.  The 
money  would  be  in  land  at  two  and  a  half  per  cent; 
repairs,  taxes,  lawsuits,  farmers  who  don't  pay  their 
rent,  a  father-in-law  who  makes  over  to  you  unsal- 
able property.  No,  no,  I'm  not  quite  young  enough. 
I  want  to  get  married,  but  I  mean  to  marry v  well. 
Leave  me  to  manage  it,  and  you'll  see.  You  can 
make  your  mind  easy;  I'm  not  the  sort  to  be  taken 
in  with :  '  She  has  such  beautiful  hair  and  she  is  so  devoted 
to  her  motherT  You  see,  mamma,  I've  thought  a  great 
deal  about  marriage,  although  you  may  not  imagine  I 
have.  The  most  difficult  thing  to  get  in  this  world, 

82 


Renee  Mauperin 


the  thing  we  pay  the  most  dearly  for,  snatch  from  each 
other,  fight  for,  the  thing  we  only  obtain  by  force  of 
genius  or  by  luck,  by  meanness,  privations,  by  wild 
efforts,  perseverance,  resolution,  energy,  audacity  or 
work,  is  money — isn't  that  so?  Now  money  means 
happiness  and  the  honour  of  being  rich,  it  means  en- 
joyment, and  it  brings  with  it  the  respect  and  esteem  of 
the  million.  Well,  I  have  discovered  that  there  is  a  way 
of  getting  it,  straightforwardly  and  promptly,  with- 
out any  fatigue,  without  difficulty  and  without  genius, 
quite  simply,  naturally,  quickly  and  honourably;  and 
this  way  is  by  marriage.  Another  thing  I  have  discov- 
ered is  that  there  is  no  need  to  be  remarkably  hand- 
some nor  astonishingly  intelligent  in  order  to  make  a 
rich  marriage;  the  only  thing  necessary  is  to  will  it, 
to  will  it  coolly,  calmly  and  with  all  one's  force  of  will- 
power, to  stake  all  one's  chances  on  that  card;  in  fact 
to  look  upon  getting  married  as  one's  object  in  life, 
one's  future  career.  I  see  that  in  playing  that  game  it 
is  no  more  difficult  to  make  an  extraordinary  marriage 
than  an  ordinary  one,  to  get  a  dowry  of  fifty  thousand 
pounds  than  one  of  five  thousand;  it  is  merely  a  ques- 
tion of  cool-headedness  and  luck;  the  stake  is  the  same 
in  both  cases.  In  our  times  when  a  good  tenor  can 
marry  an  income  of  thirty  thousand  pounds  arithmetic 
becomes  a  thing  of  the  past.  All  this  is  what  I  have 
wanted  to  explain  to  you,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  un- 
derstand me." 

83 


Renee  Mauperin 


Henri  Mauperin  took  his  mother's  hand  in  his  as 
he  spoke.  She  was  fairly  aghast  with  surprise,  admi- 
ration, and  a  sentiment  very  near  akin  to  respect. 

"  Don't  you  worry  yourself,"  continued  her  son. 
"  I  shall  marry  well — better  even  perhaps  than  you 
dream  of." 

As  soon  as  his  mother  had  gone  Henri  took  up  his 
pen  and,  continuing  the  article  he  had  commenced 
for  the  Revue  economique,  wrote:  "The  trajectory  of 
humanity  is  a  spiral  and  not  a  circle " 


84 


VIII 

HENRI  MAUPERIN'S  age,  like  that  of  so  many 
present-day  young  men,  could  not  be  reckoned  by  the 
years  of  his  life;  he  was  of  the  same  age  as  the  times  in 
which  he  lived.  The  coldness  and  absence  of  enthusi- 
asm in  the  younger  generation,  that  distinguishing 
mark  of  the  second  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  had 
set  its  seal  on  him  entirely.  He  looked  grave,  and  one 
felt  that  he  was  icy  cold.  One  recognised  in  him  those 
elements,  so  contrary  to  the  French  temperament, 
which  constitute  in  French  history  sects  without  ar- 
dour and  political  parties  without  enthusiasm,  such  as 
the  Jansenism  of  former  days  and  the  Doctrinarianism 
of  to-day. 

Henri  Mauperin  was  a  young  Doctrinaire.  He  had 
belonged  to  that  generation  of  children  whom  nothing 
astonishes  and  nothing  amuses;  who  go,  without  the 
slightest  excitement,  to  see  anything  to  which  they 
are  taken  and  who  come  back  again  perfectly  un- 
moved. When  quite  young  he  had  always  been  well 
behaved  and  thoughtful.  At  college  it  had  never  hap- 
pened to  him  in  the  midst  of  his  lessons  to  go  off  in  a 

85 


Renee  Mauperin 

dream,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  his  elbows  on  a  dic- 
tionary and  his  eyes  looking  into  the  future.  He  had 
never  been  assailed  by  temptations  with  regard  to  the 
unknown  and  by  those  first  visions  of  life  which  at  the 
age  of  sixteen  fill  the  minds  of  young  men  with  trouble 
and  delight,  shut  up  as  they  are  between  the  four  walls 
of  a  courtyard  with  grated  windows,  against  which 
their  balls  bounce  and  over  and  beyond  which  their 
thoughts  soar.  In  his  class  there  were  two  or  three 
boys  who  were  sons  of  eminent  political  men  and  with 
them  he  made  friends.  While  studying  classics  he  was 
thinking  of  the  club  he  should  join  later  on.  On  leav- 
ing college  Henri's  conduct  was  not  like  that  of  a 
young  man  of  twenty.  He  was  considered  very  steady, 
and  was  never  seen  in  places  where  drinking  and 
gambling  went  on  and  where  his  reputation  might 
have  suffered.  He  was  to  be  met  with  in  staid  draw- 
ing-rooms, where  he  was  always  extremely  attentive 
and  polite  to  ladies  who  were  no  longer  young.  All 
that  would  have  gone  against  him  elsewhere  served 
him  there  in  good  stead.  His  reserve  was  consid- 
ered an  attraction,  his  seriousness  was  thought  fasci- 
nating. 

There  are  fashions  with  regard  to  what  finds  fa- 
vour in  men.  The  reign  of  Louis  Philippe,  with  its 
great  wealth  of  scholars,  had  just  accustomed  the  po- 
litical and  literary  circles  of  Paris  to  value  in  a  society 
man  that  something  which  recalls  the  cap  and  gown, 

86 


Renee  Mauperin 


that  a  professor  takes  about  with  him  everywhere, 
even  when  he  has  become  a  minister. 

With  women  of  the  upper  middle  class  the  taste  for 
gay,  lively,  frivolous  qualities  of  mind  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  a  taste  for  conversation  which  savoured  of 
the  lecture-room,  for  science  direct  from  the  pro- 
fessor's chair,  for  a  sort  of  learned  amiability.  A 
pedant  did  not  alarm  them,  even  though  he  might 
be  old;  when  young  he  was  made  much  of,  and  it 
was  rumoured  that  Henri  Mauperin  was  a  great  fa- 
vourite. 

He  had  a  practical  mind.  He  set  up  for  being  a 
believer  in  all  that  was  useful,  in  mathematical  truths, 
positive  religions  and  the  exact  sciences.  He  had  a 
certain  compassion  for  art,  and  maintained  that  Boule 
furniture  had  never  been  made  as  well  as  at  present. 
Political  economy,  that  science  which  leads  on  to 
all  things,  had  appealed  to  him  when  he  went  out  into 
the  world  as  a  vocation  and  a  career,  consequently  he 
had  decided  to  be  an  economist.  He  had  brought  to 
this  dry  study  a  narrow-minded  intelligence,  but  he 
had  been  patient  and  persevering,  and  now,  once  a 
fortnight,  he  published  in  important  reviews  a  long 
article  well  padded  with  figures  which  the  women 
skipped  and  the  men  said  they  had  read. 

By  the  interest  which  it  takes  in  the  poorer 
classes,  by  its  care  for  their  welfare  and  the  algebraic 
account  it  keeps  of  all  their  misery  and  needs,  political 

87 


Renee  Mauperin 


economy  had,  of  course,  given  to  Henri  Mauperin  a 
colouring  of  Liberalism.  It  was  not  that  he  belonged 
to  a  very  decided  Opposition:  his  opinions  were  mere- 
ly a  little  ahead  of  Government  principles,  and  his 
convictions  induced  him  to  make  overtures  to  what- 
ever was  likely  to  succeed.  He  limited  his  war 
against  the  powers  that  were  to  the  shooting  of  an 
arrow  or  to  a  veiled  allusion,  the  key  and  meaning 
of  which  he  would  by  means  of  his  friends  convey  to 
the  various  salons.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  carry- 
ing on  a  flirtation,  rather  than  hostilities,  with  the 
Government  in  power.  Drawing-room  acquaint- 
ances, people  whom  he  met  in  society,  brought  him 
within  reach  of  Government  influence  and  into  touch 
with  Government  patronage.  He  would  prepare  the 
works  and  correct  the  proofs  of  some  high  official 
who  was  always  busy  and  who  had  scarcely  time  to  do 
more  than  sign  his  books.  He  had  managed  to  get  on 
good  terms  with  his  Prefect,  hoping  through  him  to 
get  into  the  Council  and  afterward  into  the  Chamber. 
He  excelled  in  playing  double  parts,  and  was  clever  at 
compromises  and  arrangements  which  kept  hifn  in 
touch  with  everything  without  quarrelling  with  any- 
body or  anything.  Though  a  liberal  and  political 
economist,  he  had  found  a  way  of  turning  aside  the 
distrust  of  the  Catholics  and  their  enmity  against 
himself  and  his  doctrines.  He  had  won  the  indul- 
gence and  sympathy  of  some  of  them,  and  had  man- 

88 


Renee  Mauperin 

aged  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  the  clergy  and  to 
flatter  the  church  by  linking  together  material  prog- 
ress and  spiritual  progress,  the  religion  of  political 
economy  and  that  of  Catholicism:  Quesnay  and  Saint 
Augustin,  Bastiat  and  the  Gospel,  statistics  and  God. 
Then  besides  this  programme  of  his,  the  alliance  of 
Religion  and  Political  Economy,  he  had  a  reserve 
stock  of  piety,  and  he  observed  most  regularly  certain 
religious  practices,  which  won  for  him  the  affectionate 
regard  of  the  Abbe  Blampoix  and  brought  him  into 
secret  communion  with  believers  and  with  those  who 
observed  their  religious  duties. 

Henri  Mauperin  had  taken  his  flat  in  the  Rue 
Taitbout  for  the  purpose  of  entertaining  his  friends. 
These  entertainments  consisted  of  solemn  parties  for 
young  men,  where  the  guests  would  gather  round  a 
table  which  looked  like  a  desk  and  talk  about  Natural 
Law,  Public  Charities,  Productive  Forces,  and  the 
Multiplicabilite  of  the  Human  Species.  Henri  tried 
to  turn  these  reunions  into  something  approaching 
conferences.  He  was  selecting  the  men  and  looking 
for  the  elements  he  would  require  for  the  famous  salon 
he  hoped  to  have  in  Paris  as  soon  as  he  was  married; 
he  lured  to  his  reunions  the  great  authorities  and 
notabilities  of  economic  science,  and  invited  to  a  sort 
of  honorary  presidency  members  of  the  Institute, 
whom  he  had  pursued  with  his  politeness  and  his  news- 
paper puffs  and  who,  according  to  his  plans,  would 

89 


Renee  Mauperin 


some  day  help  him  to  take  his  seat  among  them  in 
the  moral  and  political  science  section. 

It  was,  however,  in  turning  associations  to  ac- 
count that  Henri  had  shown  his  talent  and  all  his 
skill.  He  had  from  the  very  first  clung  to  that  great 
means  of  getting  on  peculiar  to  ciphers — that  means 
by  which  a  man  is  no  longer  one  alone,  but  a  unit 
joined  to  a  number.  He  had  gained  a  footing  for 
himself  in  associations  of  every  kind.  He  had  joined 
the  d'Aguesseau  Debating  Society  and  had  glided 
in  and  taken  his  place  among  all  those  young 
men  who  were  practising  speech-making,  educating 
themselves  for  the  platform,  doing  their  apprentice- 
ship as  orators  and  their  probation  as  statesmen  for 
future  parliamentary  struggles.  Clubs,  college  re- 
unions and  banquets  of  old  boys,  barriers'  lectures, 
historical  and  geographical  societies,  scientific  and 
benevolent  societies,  he  had  neglected  nothing. 
Everywhere,  in  all  centres  which  give  to  the  indi- 
vidual an  opportunity  of  shining  and  which  bring 
him  any  profit  by  the  collective  influence  of  a  group, 
he  appeared  and  was  here,  there  and  everywhere, 
making  fresh  acquaintances,  forming  new  connec- 
tions, cultivating  friendships  and  interests  which 
might  lead  him  on  to  something,  thus  driving  in 
the  landmarks  of  his  various  ambitions,  marching 
ahead,  from  the  committee  of  one  society  to  the  com- 
mittee of  another  society,  to  an  importance,  a  sort  of 

90 


Renee  Mauperin 


veiled  notoriety  and  to  one  of  those  names  which, 
thanks  to  political  influence,  are  suddenly  brought  to 
the  front  when  the  right  time  comes. 

He  certainly  was  well  qualified  for  the  part  he  was 
playing.  Eloquent  and  active,  he  could  make  all  the 
noise  and  stir  which  lead  a  man  on  to  success  in  this 
century  of  ours.  He  was  commonplace  with  plenty  of 
show  about  him.  In  society  he  rarely  recited  his  own 
articles,  but  he  usually  posed  with  one  hand  in  his 
waistcoat,  after  the  fashion  of  Guizot  in  Delaroche's 
portrait. 


IX 

"  WELL!  "  exclaimed  Renee,  entering  the  dining- 
room  at  eleven  o'clock,  breathless  like  a  child  who  had 
been  running,  "  I  thought  every  one  would  be  down. 
Where  is  mamma?  " 

"  Gorte  to  Paris — shopping,"  answered  M.  Mau- 
perin. 

"  Oh!— and  where's  Denoisel?  " 

"  He's  gone  to  see  the  man  with  the  sloping 
ground,  who  must  have  kept  him  to  luncheon.  We'll 
begin  luncheon." 

"  Good-morning,  papa!  "  And  instead  of  taking 
her  seat  Renee  went  across  to  her  father  and  putting 
her  arms  round  his  neck  began  to  kiss  him. 

"There,  there,  that's  enough — you  silly  child!" 

v  • 

said  M.  Mauperin,  smiling  as  he  endeavoured  to  free 

himself. 

"  Let  me  kiss  you  tong-fashion — there — like  that," 

and  she  pinched  his  cheeks  and  kissed  him  again. 
"  What  a  child  you  are,  to  be  sure." 
"  Now  look  at  me.     I  want  to  see  whether  you 

care  for  me." 

92 


Renee  Mauperin 


And  Renee,  standing  up  after  kissing  him  once 
more,  moved  back  from  her  father,  still  holding  his 
head  between  her  hands.  They  gazed  at  each  other 
lovingly  and  earnestly,  looking  into  one  another's 
eyes.  The  French  window  was  open  and  the  light,  the 
scents  and  the  various  noises  from  the  garden  pene- 
trated into  the  room.  A  beam  of  sunshine  darted 
on  to  the  table,  lighted  on  the  china  and  made  the 
glass  glitter.  It  was  bright,  cheerful  weather  and  a 
faint  breeze  was  stirring;  the  shadows  of  the  leaves 
trembled  slightly  on  the  floor.  A  vague  sound  of 
wings  fluttering  in  the  trees  and  of  birds  sporting 
among  the  flowers  could  be  heard  in  the  distance. 

"  Only  we  two;  how  nice!  "  exclaimed  Renee,  un- 
folding her  serviette.  "  Oh,  the  table  is  too  large; 
I  am  too  far  away,"  and  taking  her  knife  and  fork 
she  went  and  sat  next  her  father.  "  As  I  have  my 
father  all  to  myself  to-day  I'm  going  to  enjoy  my 
father,"  and  so  saying  she  drew  her  chair  still  nearer 
to  him. 

"  Ah,  you  remind  me  of  the  time  when  you  al- 
ways wanted  to  have  your  dinner  in  my  pocket.  But 
you  were  eight  years  old  then." 

Renee  began  to  laugh. 

"  I  was  scolded  yesterday,"  said  M.  Mauperin, 
after  a  minute's  silence,  putting  his  knife  and  fork 
down  on  his  plate. 

"  Oh!  "  remarked  Renee,  looking  up  at  the  ceiling 
93 


Renee  Mauperin 


in  an  innocent  way  and  then  letting  her  eyes  fall  on 
her  father  with  a  sly  look  in  them  such  as  one  sees  in 
the  eyes  of  a  cat.  "  Really,  poor  papa!  Why  were 
you  scolded?  What  had  you  done?" 

"  Yes,  I  should  advise  you  to  ask  me  that  again; 
you  know  better  than  I  do  myself  why  I  was  scolded. 
What  do  you  mean,  you  dreadful  child?  " 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  lecture  me,  papa,  I  shall 
get  up  and — I  shall  kiss  you." 

She  half  rose  as  she  said  this,  but  M.  Mauperin 
interrupted  her,  endeavouring  to  speak  in  a  severe 
tone: 

"  Sit  down  again,  Renee,  please.  You  must  own, 
my  dear  child,  that  yesterday " 

"  Oh,  papa,  are  you  going  to  talk  to  me  like  this 
on  such  a  beautiful  day?  " 

"  Well,  but  will  you  explain? "  persisted  M. 
Mauperin,  trying  to  remain  dignified  in  face  of  the 
rebellious  expression,  made  up  of  smiles  mingled  with 
defiance,  in  his  daughter's  eyes.  "  It  was  very  evi- 
dent that  you  behaved  in  the  way  you  did  pur- 
posely." 

Renee  winked  mischievously  and  nodded  her  head 
two  or  three  times  affirmatively. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  seriously,  Renee." 

"  But  I  am  quite  serious,  I  assure  you.     I  have 
told  you  that  I  was  like  that  on  purpose." 
.     "And  why — will  you  tell  me  that?" 

94 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Why?  Oh,  yes,  I'll  tell  you,  but  on  condition 
that  you  won't  be  too  conceited.  It  was  because — 
because " 

"  Because  of  what?  " 

"  Because  I  love  you  much  more  than  that  gen- 
tleman who  was  here  yesterday — there  now — very 
much  more — it's  quite  true!  " 

"  But,  then,  we  ought  not  to  have  allowed  him 
to  come  if  you  did  not  care  for  this  young  man.  We 
didn't  force  you  into  it.  It  was  you  yourself  who 
agreed  that  he  should  be  invited.  On  the  contrary, 
your  mother  and  I  believed  that  this  match " 

"  Excuse  me,  papa,  but  if  I  had  refused  M.  Rever- 
chon  at  first  sight,  point-blank,  you  would  have  said 
I  was  unreasonable,  mad,  senseless.  I  fancy  I  can 
hear  mamma  now  on  the  subject.  Whereas,  as  things 
were,  what  is  there  to  reproach  me  with?  I  saw  M. 
Reverchon  once,  and  I  saw  him  again,  I  had  plenty 
of  time  to  judge  him  and  I  knew  that  I  disliked  him. 
It  is  very  silly,  perhaps,  but  it  is  nevertheless " 

"  But  why  did  you  not  tell  us?  We  could  have 
found  a  hundred  ways  of  getting  out  of  it." 

"  You  are  very  ungrateful,  papa.  I  have  saved 
y»u  all  that  worry.  The  young  man  is  drawing  out 
of  it  himself  and  it  is  not  your  fault  at  all ;  I  alone  am 
responsible.  And  this  is  all  the  gratitude  I  get  for  my 
self-sacrifice!  Another  time " 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  dear.  If  I  speak  to  you  like 
95 


Renee  Mauperin 


this  it  is  because  it  is  a  question  of  your  marriage. 
Your  marriage — ah,  it  took  me  a  long  time  to  get 
reconciled  to  the  idea  that — to  the  idea  of  being  sepa- 
rated from  you.  Fathers  are  selfish,  you  see;  they 
would  like  it  better  if  you  never  took  to  yourself 
wings.  They  have  the  greatest  difficulty  in  making 
up  their  minds  to  it  all.  They  think  they  cannot  be 
happy  without  your  smiles,  and  that  the  house  will 
be  very  different  when  your  dress  is  not  flitting  about. 
But  we  have  to  submit  to  what  must  be,  and  now 
it  seems  to  me  that  I  shall  like  my  son-in-law.  I  am 
getting  old,  you  know,  my  dear  little  Renee,"  and  M. 
Mauperin  took  his  daughter's  hands  in  his.  "  Your 
father  is  sixty-eight,  my  child,  he  has  only  just  time 
enough  left  to  see  you  settled  and  happy.  Your  fu- 
ture, if  only  you  knew  it,  is  my  one  thought,  my  one 
torment.  Your  mother  loves  you  dearly,  too,  I  know, 
but  your  character  and  hers  are  different;  and  then, 
if  anything  happened  to  me.  You  know  we  must 
face  things;  and  at  my  age.  You  see  the  thought  of 
leaving  you  without  a  husband — and  children — with- 
out any  love  which  would  make  up  to  you  for^your 
old  father's  when  he  is  no  longer  with  you " 

M.  Mauperin  could  not  finish;  his  daughter  had 
thrown  her  arms  round  him,  stifling  down  her  sobs, 
and  her  tears  were  flowing  freely  on  his  waistcoat. 

"  Oh,  it's  dreadful  of  you,  dreadful!  "  she  said  in  a 
choking  voice.  "  Why  do  you  talk  about  it?  Never 

96 


Renee  Mauperin 


— never!  "  and  with  a  gesture  she  waved  back  the 
dark  shadow  called  up  by  her  imagination. 

M.  Mauperin  had  taken  her  on  his  knee.  He  put 
his  arms  round  her,  kissed  her  forehead  and  said, 
"  Don't  cry,  Renee,  don't  cry!  " 

"How  dreadful!  Never!"  she  repeated  once 
more,  as  though  she  were  just  rousing  herself  from 
some  bad  dream,  and  then,  wiping  her  eyes  with  the 
back  pf  her  hand,  she  said  to  her  father:  "  I  must  go 
away  and  have  my  cry  out,"  and  with  that  she  es- 
caped. 

"  That  Dardouillet  is  certainly  mad,"  remarked 
Denoisel,  as  he  entered  the  room.  "  Just  fancy,  I 
could  not  possibly  get  rid  of  him.  Ah,  you  are 
alone?  " 

"  Yes,  my  wife  is  in  Paris,  and  Renee  has  just 
gone  upstairs." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  M.  Mauperin?  You 
look " 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing — a  little  scene  with  Renee  that 
I've  just  had — about  this  marriage — this  Reverchon. 
I  was  silly  enough  to  tell  her  that  I  am  in  a  hurry 
to  see  my  grandchildren,  that  fathers  of  my  age  are 
not  immortal,  and  thereupon — the  child  is  so  sensi- 
tive, you  know.  She  is  up  in  her  room  now,  crying. 
Don't  go  up;  it  will  take  her  a  little  time  to  recover. 
I'll  go  and  look  after  my  work-people." 

97  Vol.  la— E 


Renee  Mauperin 


Denoisel,  left  to  himself,  lighted  a  cigar,  picked 
up  a  book  and  went  out  to  one  of  the  garden  seats  to 
read.  He  had  been  there  about  two  hours  when  he 
saw  Renee  coming  towards  him.  She  had  her  hat  on 
and  her  animated  face  shone  with  joy  and  a  sort  of 
serene  excitement. 

"Well,  have  you  been  out?  Where  have  you 
come  from?  " 

"  Where  have  I  come  from?  "  repeated  Renee,  un- 
fastening her  hat.  "  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  as  you  are  my 
friend,"  and  she  took  her  hat  off  and  threw  her  head 
back  with  that  pretty  gesture  women  have  for  shak- 
ing their  hair  into  place.  "  I've  come  from  church, 
and  if  you  want  to  know  what  I've  been  doing  there, 
why,  I've  been  asking  God  to  let  me  die  before  papa. 
I  was  in  front  of  a  large  statue  of  the  Virgin — you 
are  not  to  laugh — it  would  make  me  unhappy  if  you 
laughed.  Perhaps  it  was  the  sun  or  the  effect  of  gaz- 
ing at  her  all  the  time,  I  don't  know,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  all  in  a  minute  that  she  did  like  this — "  and 
Renee  nodded  her  head.  "  Anyhow,  I  am  very  happy 
and  my  knees  ache,  too,  I  can  tell  you;  for  att  the 
time  I  was  praying  I  was  on  my  knees,  and  not  on  a 
chair  or  a  cushion  either — but  on  the  stone  floor.  Ah, 
I  prayed  in  earnest;  God  can't  surely  refuse  me  that!  " 


98 


x  .       , 

A  FEW  days  after  this  M.  and  Mme.  Mauperin. 
Henri,  Renee,  and  Denoisel  were  sitting  together 
after  dinner  in  the  little  garden  which  stretched  out 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  between  the  walls  of  the 
refinery  and  its  outbuildings.  The  largest  tree  in  the 
garden  was  a  fir,  and  the  rose-trees  had  been  allowed 
to  climb  up  to  its  lowest  branches,  so  that  its  green 
arms  stirred  the  roses.  Under  the  tree  was  a  swing, 
and  at  the  back  of  it  a  sort  of  thicket  of  lilacs  and 
witch-elms;  there  was  a  round  plot  of  grass,  with  a 
garden  bench  and  a  very  small  pool  with  a  white 
curbstone  round  it  and  a  fountain  that  did  not  play. 
The  pool  was  full  of  aquatic  plants  and  a  few  black 
newts  were  swimming  in  it. 

"  You  don't  intend  to  have  any  theatricals,  then, 
Renee?"  Henri  was  saying  to  his  sister.  "You've 
quite  given  up  that  idea?  " 

"  Given  up — no;  but  what  can  I  do?  It  isn't  my 
fault,  for  I  would  act  anything — I'd  stand  on  my  head. 
But  I  can't  find  any  one  else,  so  that,  unless  I  give  a 
monologue —  Denoisel  has  refused,  and  as  for  you, 

99 


Renee  Mauperin 


a  sober  man  like  you — well,  I  suppose  it's  no  use 
asking." 

"  I,  why,  I  would  act  right  enough,"  answered 
Henri. 

"  You,  Henri?  "  exclaimed  Mme.  Mauperin  in  as- 
tonishment. 

"  And  then,  too,  we  are  not  short  of  men,"  con- 
tinued Renee,  "  there  are  always  men  to  act.  It's  for 
the  women's  parts.  Ah,  that's  the  difficulty — to  find 
ladies.  I  don't  see  who  is  to  act  with  me." 

"  Oh,"  said  Henri,  "  if  we  look  about  among  all 
the  people  we  know,,  I'll  wager " 

"Well,  let's  see:  there's  M.  Durand's  daughter. 
Why,  yes — what  do  you  think?  M.  Durand's  daugh- 
ter? They  are  at  Saint-Denis;  that  will  be  conve- 
nient for  the  rehearsals.  She's  rather  a  simpleton, 
but  I  should  think  for  the  role  of  Mme.  de  Cha- 


vigny 

"  Ah,"  put  in  Denoisel,  "  you  still  want  to  act 
'The  Caprice'?" 

"  Now  for  a  lecture,  I  suppose?  But  as  I'm  going 
to  act  with  my  brother " 

"  And  the  performance  will  be  for  the  benefit  of 
the  poor,  I  hope?  "  continued  Denoisel. 

"  Why?  " 

"  It  would  make  the  audience  more  disposed  to 
be  charitable." 

"  We'll  see  about  that,  sir,  we'll  see  about  it.    Well, 

IOO 


Renee  Mauperin 


Emma  Durand — will  that  do?  What  do  you  think, 
mamma?  " 

"  They  are  not  our  sort  of  people,  my  dear,"  an- 
swered Mme.  Mauperin  quickly;  "  they  are  all  very 
well  at  a  distance,  people  like  that,  but  every  one 
knows  where  they  sprang  from — the  Rue  St.  Ho- 
nore.  Mme.  Durand  used  to  go  and  receive  the  ladies 
at  their  carriage-door,  and  M.  Durand  would  slip 
out  at  the  back  and  take  the  servant-men  to  have 
a  glass  at  the  wine-shop  round  the  corner.  That's 
how  the  Durands  made  their  fortune." 

Although  at  bottom  Mme.  Mauperin  was  an  ex- 
cellent sort  of  woman  she  rarely  lost  an  opportunity 
of  depreciating,  in  this  way  and  with  the  most  superb 
contempt  and  disgust,  the  wealth,  birth  and  position 
of  all  the  people  she  knew.  It  was  not  out  of  spite, 
nor  was  it  for  the  pleasure  of  slandering  and  back- 
biting, nor  yet  because  she  was  envious.  She  would 
refuse  to  believe  in  the  respectability  and  uprightness 
of  people,  or  even  in  the  wealth  they  were  said  to 
have,  simply  from  a  prodigious  bourgeois  pride,  from 
a  conviction  that  outside  her  own  family  there  could 
be  no  good  blood,  and  no  integrity;  that,  with  the 
exception  of  her  own  people,  every  one  was  an  up- 
start; that  nothing  was  substantial  except  what  she 
possessed,  and  that  what  she  had  not  was  not  worth 
having. 

"  And  to  think  that  my  wife  has  tales  like  that  to 
101 


Renee  Mauperin 


tell  about  all  the  people  we  know!"  said  M.  Mau- 
perin. 

"  Come  now,  papa — shall  we  have  the  pretty  little 
Remoli  girl — shall  we?  " 

"  Ask  your  mother.    Say  on,  Mme.  Mauperin." 

"The  Remoli  girl?    But,  my  dear,  you  know — " 

"  I  know  nothing." 

"  Oh!  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  don't  know 
her  father's  history?  A  poor  Italian  stucco  worker. 
He  came  to  Paris  without  a  sou  and  bought  a  bit 
of  ground  with  a  wretched  little  house  at  Mont- 
parnasse.  I  don't  know  where  he  got  the  money 
from  to  buy  it.  Well,  this  land  turned  out  to  be 
a  regular  Montfaucon!  He  sold  thirty  thousand 
pounds'  worth  of  his  precious  stuff — and  then  he's 
been  mixed  up  with  Stock  Exchange  affairs.  Dis- 
gusting! " 

"  Oh,  well,"  put  in  Henri,  "  I  fancy  you  are 
going  out  of  your  way  to  find  folks.  Why  don't 
you  ask  Mile.  Bourjot?  They  happen  to  be  at  San- 
nois  now." 

"  Mile.  Bourjot?  "  repeated  Mme.  Mauperin.  x 

"Noemi?"  said  Renee  quickly,  "I  should  just 
think  I  should  like  to  ask  her.  But  this  winter  I 
thought  her  so  distant  with  me.  She  has  something 
or  other — I  don't  know " 

"  She  has,  or  rather  she  will  have,  twelve  thousand 
pounds  a  year,"  interrupted  Denoisel,  "  and  mothers 

1 02 


Renee  Mauperin 


are  apt  to  watch  over  their  daughters  when  such  is 
the  case.  They  will  not  allow  them  to  get  too  inti- 
mate with  a  sister  who  has  a  brother.  They  have 
made  her  understand  this;  that's  about  the  long  and 
short  of  it." 

"  Then,  too,  they  are  so  high  and  mighty,  those 
folks  are;  they  might  have  descended  from —  And 
yet,"  continued  Mme.  Mauperin,  breaking  off  and 
turning  to  her  son,  "  they  have  always  been  very 
pleasant  with  you,  Henri,  haven't  they?  Mme.  Bour- 
jot  is  always  very  nice  to  you?  " 

"  Yes,  and  she  has  complained  several  times  of 
your  not  going  to  her  soirees;  she  says  you  don't 
take  Renee  often  enough  to  see  her  daughter." 

"  Really?  "  exclaimed  Renee,  very  delighted. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mme.  Mauperin,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  what  Henri  says — Mile.  Bourjot?  " 

"  What  objection  do  you  want  me  to  make?  " 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Mme.  Mauperin,  "  Henri's 
idea  shall  be  carried  out.  We'll  go  on  Saturday,  shall 
we,  my  dear?  And  you'll  come  with  us,  Henri?  " 

A  few  hours  later  every  one  was  in  bed  with  the 
exception  of  Henri  Mauperin.  He  was  walking  up 
and  down  in  his  room  puffing  on  a  cigar  that  had  gone 
out,  and  every  now  and  then  he  appeared  to  be  smil- 
ing at  his  own  thoughts. 


103 


XI 

RENEE  often  went  during  the  day  to  paint  in  a 
little  studio,  built  out  of  an  old  green-house  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden.  It  was  very  rustic-looking, 
half  hidden  with  verdure  and  walled  with  ivy,  some- 
thing between  an  old  ruin  and  a  nest. 

On  a  table  covered  with  an  Algerian  cloth  there 
were,  on  this  particular  day  in  the  little  studio,  a 
Japanese  box  with  a  blue  design,  a  lemon,  an  old  red 
almanac  with  the  French  coat  of  arms,  and  two  or 
three  other  bright-coloured  objects  grouped  together 
as  naturally  as  possible  to  make  a  picture,  with  the 
light  from  the  glass  roof  falling  on  them.  Seated  in 
front  of  the  table,  Renee  was  painting  all  this  with 
brushes  as  fine  as  pins  on  a  canvas  which  already  had 
something  on  the  under  side.  The  skirt  of  her  white 
pique  dress  hung  in  ample  folds  on  each  side  of  the 
stool  on  which  she  was  seated.  She  had  gathered  a 
white  rose  as  she  came  through  the  garden  and  had 
fastened  it  in  her  loosely  arranged  hair  just  above  her 
ear.  Her  foot,  visible  below  her  dress,  in  a  low  shoe 
which  showed  her  white  stocking,  was  resting  on  the 

104 


Renee  Mauperin 


cross-bar  of  the  easel.  Denoisel  was  seated  near  her, 
watching  her  work  and  making  a  bad  sketch  of  her 
profile  in  an  album  he  had  picked  up  in  the  studio. 

"  Oh,  you  do  pose  well,"  he  remarked,  as  he 
sharpened  his  pencil  again;  "  I  would  just  as  soon  try 
to  catch  an  omnibus  as  your  expression.  You  never 
cease.  If  you  always  move  like  that " 

"  Ah,  now,  Denoisel,  no  nonsense  with  your  por- 
trait. I  hope  you'll  flatter  me  a  little." 

"  No  more  than  the  sun  does.  I  am  as  conscien- 
tious as  a  photograph." 

"  Let  me  look,"  she  said,  leaning  back  towards 
Denoisel  and  holding  her  maulstick  and  palette  out 
in  front  of  her.  "  Oh!  I  am  not  beautiful.  Truly, 
now,"  she  continued,  as  she  went  on  with  her  paint- 
ing, "  am  I  like  that?  " 

"  Something.  Come,  Renee — honestly  now — 
what  do  you  think  you  are  like  yourself — beautiful?  " 

"  No." 

"  Pretty?  " 

"  No— no " 

"  Ah,  you  took  the  trouble  to  think  the  matter 
over  this  time." 

"  Yes,  but  I  said  it  twice." 

"  Good!  If  you  think  you  are  neither  beautiful 
nor  pretty,  you  don't  fancy  either  that  you  are " 

"  Ugly?  No,  that's  quite  true.  It's  very  difficult 
to  explain.  Sometimes,  now,  when  I  look  at  myself, 

105 


Renee  Mauperin 

I  think — how  am  I  to  explain?  Well,  I  like  my  looks; 
it  isn't  my  face,  I  know,  it's  just  a  sort  of  expression 
I  have  at  such  times,  a  something  that  is  within  me 
and  which  I  can  feel  passing  over  my  features.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is — happiness,  pleasure,  a  sort  of 
emotion  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it.  I  get  mo- 
ments like  that  when  it  seems  to  me  as  though  I  am 
taking  all  my  people  in  finely.  All  the  same,  though, 
I  should  have  liked  to  be  beautiful." 

"Really!" 

"  It  must  be  very  pleasant  for  one's  own  sake,  it 
seems  to  me.  Now,  for  instance,  I  should  have  liked 
to  be  tall,  with  very  black  hair.  It's  stupid  to  be 
almost  blonde.  It's  the  same  with  white  skin;  I  should 
have  chosen  a  skin — well,  like  Mme.  Stavelot,  rather 
orange-coloured.  I  like  that,  but  it's  a  matter  of 
taste.  And  then  I  should  have  enjoyed  looking  in  my 
glass.  It's  like  when  I  get  up  in  the  morning  and 
walk  about  the  carpet  with  bare  feet.  I  should  love 
to  have  feet  like  a  statue  I  once  saw — it's  just  an 
idea! " 

"  If  that's  how  you  feel  you  wouldn't  care  about 
being  beautiful  for  the  sake  of  other  people?  " 

"  Yes  and  no.  Not  for  every  one — only  for  those 
I  care  for.  We  ought  to  be  ugly  for  people  about 
whom  we  are  indifferent,  for  all  the  people  we  don't 
love — don't  you  think  so?  They  would  have  just 
what  they  deserved  then." 

106 


Renee  Mauperin 


Denoisel  began  sketching  again. 

"  How  odd  it  is,  your  ideal,  to  wish  to  be  dark! " 
he  said,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  What  should  you  like  to  be?  " 

"  If  I  were  a  woman?  I  should  like  to  be  small 
and  neither  very  fair  nor  very  dark " 

"Auburn  then?" 

"  And  plump —    Oh,  as  plump  as  a  quail." 

"  Plump?  Ah,  I  can  breathe  again.  Just  for  a 
moment  I  was  afraid  of  a  declaration —  If  the  light 
had  not  shown  up  your  hair  I  should  have  forgotten 
you  were  forty." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  make  me  out  any  older  than  I 
am,  Renee;  that  is  exactly  my  age.  But  do  you  know 
what  yours  is  for  me?  " 

«  No " 

"  Twelve — and  you  will  always  be  that  age  to 
me." 

"  Thanks — I  am  very  glad,"  said  Renee.  "  If 
that's  it  I  shall  always  be  able  to  tell  you  all  the 
nonsense  that  comes  into  my  head.  Denoisel,"  she 
continued,  after  a  short  silence,  "  have  you  ever  been 
in  love?  "  She  had  drawn  back  slightly  from  her 
canvas  and  was  looking  at  it  sideways,  her  head  lean- 
ing over  her  shoulder  to  see  the  effect  of  the  colour 
she  had  just  put  on. 

"  Oh,  well !  that's  a  good  start,"  answered  Denoi- 
sel. "What  a  question!" 

107 


Renee  Mauperin 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  question?  I'm  ask- 
ing you  that  just  as  I  might  ask  you  anything  else. 
I  don't  see  anything  in  it.  Would  there  be  any 
harm  in  asking  such  a  thing  in  society?  Come  now, 
Denoisel!  you  say  I  am  twelve  years  old  and  I  agree 
to  be  twelve;  but  I'm  twenty  all  the  same.  I'm  a 
young  person,  that's  true,  but  if  you  imagine  that 
young  persons  of  my  age  have  never  read  any  novels 
nor  sung  any  love-songs — why,  it's  all  humbug — it's 
just  posing  as  sweet  innocents.  After  all,  just  as  you 
like.  If  you  think  I  am  not  old  enough  I'll  take  back 
my  question.  I  thought  we  were  to  consider  ourselves 
men  when  we  talked  about  things  together." 

"  Well,  since  you  want  to  know,  yes — I  have  been 
in  love." 

"  Ah!  And  what  effect  did  it  have  on  you — toeing 
in  love?  " 

"  You  have  only  to  read  over  again  the  novels  you 
have  read,  my  dear,  and  you  will  find  the  effect  de- 
scribed on  every  page." 

"  There,  now,  that's  just  what  puzzles  me;  all  the 

V 

books  one  reads  are  full  of  love — there's  nothing  but 
that!  And  then  in  real  life  one  sees  nothing  of  it — 
at  least  I  don't  see  anything  of  it;  on  the  contrary, 
I  see  every  one  doing  without  it,  and  quite  easily, 
too.  Sometimes  I  wonder  whether  it  is  not  just  in- 
vented for  books,  whether  it  is  not  all  imagined  by 
authors — really." 

108 


Renee  Mauperin 

Denoisel  laughed  at  the  young  girl's  words. 
'  Tell  me,  Renee,"  he  said,  ''  since  we  are  men  for 
the  time  being,  as  you  just  said  and  as  we  talk  to 
each  other  of  what  we  feel,  quite  frankly  like  two  old 
friends,  I  should  like  to  ask  you  in  my  turn  whether 
you 'have  ever — well,  not  been  in  love  with  any  one, 
but  whether  you  have  ever  cared  for  any  one?  " 

"  No,  never,"  answered  Renee,  after  a  moment's 
reflection,  "  but  then  I  am  not  a  fair  example.  I  fancy 
that  such  things  happen  to  people  who  have  an  empty 
heart,  no  one  to  think  about;  people  who  are  not 
taken  up,  absorbed,  possessed  and,  as  it  were,  pro- 
tected by  one  of  those  affections  which  take  hold  of 
you  wholly  and  entirely — the  affection  one  has  for 
one's  father,  for  instance." 

Denoisel  did  not  answer. 

"  You  don't  believe  that  that  does  preserve  you?  " 
said  Renee.  "  Well,  but  I  can  assure  you  I  have 
tried  in  vain  to  remember.  Oh,  I'm  examining  my 
conscience  thoroughly,  I  promise  you.  Well,  from 
my  very  childhood,  I  cannot  remember  anything- — 
no,  nothing  at  all.  And  yet  some  of  my  little  friends, 
who  were  no  older  than  I  was,  would  kiss  the  inside 
of  the  caps  of  the  little  boys  who  used  to  play  with 
us;  and  they  would  collect  the  peach-stones  from  the 
plates  the  little  boys  had  used  and  put  them  into  a 
box  and  then  take  the  box  to  bed  with  them.  Yes, 
I  remember  all  that.  Noemi,  for  instance,  Mile.  Bour- 

109 


Renee  Mauperin 


jot,  was  very  great  at  all  that.     But  as  for  me,  I 
simply  went  on  with  my  games." 

"  And  later  on  when  you  were  no  longer  a  child?  " 

"  Later  on?  I  have  always  been  a  child  as  re- 
gards all  that.  No,  there  is  nothing  at  all — I  cannot 
remember  a  single  impression.  I  mean — well'  I'm 
going  to  be  quite  frank  with  you — I  had  just  a  slight, 
a  very  slight  commencement  of  what  you  were  talk- 
ing about — just  a  sensation  of  that  feeling  that  I  rec- 
ognised later  on  in  novels — and  can  you  guess  for 
whom?  " 

"  No." 

"  For  you.  Oh,  it  was  only  for  an  instant.  I 
soon  liked  you  in  quite  a  different  way — and  better, 
too.  "  I  respected  you  and  was  grateful  to  you.  I 
liked  you  for  correcting  my  faults  as  a  spoiled  child, 
for  enlarging  my  mind,  for  teaching  me  to  appre- 
ciate all  that  is  beautiful,  elevated  and  noble;  and 
all,  too,  in  a  joking  way  by  making  fun  of  every- 
thing that  is  ugly  and  worthless  and  of  everything 
that  is  dull  or  mean  and  cowardly.  You  taught  me 
how  to  play  ball  and  how  to  endure  being  bored 
to  death  with  imbeciles.  I  have  to  thank  you  for 
much  of  what  I  think  about,  for  much  of  what  I  am 
and  for  a  little  of  any  good  there  is  in  me.  I  wanted 
to  pay  my  debt  with  a  true  and  lasting  friendship,  and 
by  giving  you  cordially,  as  a  comrade,  some  of  the 
affection  I  have  for  father." 

no 


Renee  Mauperin 


As  Renee  said  these  last  words  she  raised  her 
voice  slightly  and  spoke  in  a  graver  tone. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  that?  "  exclaimed  M.  Mau- 
perin, who  had  just  entered  and  had  caught  sight  of 
Denoisel's  sketch.  "  Is  that  intended  for  my  daugh- 
ter! Why,  it's  a  frightful  libel,"  and  M.  Mauperin 
picked  up  the  album  and  began  to  tear  the  page  up. 

"  Oh,  papa!  "  exclaimed  Renee,  "  and  I  wanted  it 
— for  a  keepsake!  " 


XII 

A  LIGHT  carriage,  drawn  by  one  horse,  was  con- 
veying the  Mauperin  family  along  the  Sannois  road. 
Renee  had  taken  the  reins  and  the  whip  from  her 
brother,  who  was  seated  at  her  side  smoking.  Ani- 
mated by  the  drive,  the  air,  and  the  movement,  M. 
Mauperin  was  joking  about  the  people  they  met  and 
bowing  gaily  to  any  acquaintances  they  passed. 
Mme.  Mauperin  was  silent  and  absorbed.  She  was 
buried  in  herself,  thinking  out  and  preparing  her  amia- 
bility for  the  approaching  visit. 

"  Why,  mamma,"  remarked  Renee,  "  you  don't 
say  a  word.  Are  you  not  well?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  very  well,  quite  well,"  answered  Mme. 
Mauperin;  "but  the  fact  is  I'm  worrying  rather 
about  this  visit — and  if  it  had  not  been  for  Henri — 
There's  something  so  stiff  and  cold  about  Mme.  Bdur- 
jot — they  are  all  so  high  and  mighty.  Oh,  it  isn't 
that  they  impress  me  at  all — their  money  indeed!  I 
know  too  well  where  they  had  it  from.  They  made 
their  money  from  some  invention  they  bought  from 
an  unfortunate  working-man  for  a  mere  nothing — 
a  few  coppers." 

112 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Come,  come,  Mme.  Mauperin/'  put  in  her  hus- 
band, "  they  must  have  bought  more  than " 

"  Well,  anyhow,  I  don't  feel  at  ease  with  these 
people." 

"  You  are  very  foolish  to  trouble  yourself " 

"  We  can  tell  them  we  don't  care  a  hang  for  their 
fine  airs!  "  said  Mile.  Mauperin,  whipping  up  the 
horse  so  that  her  slang  was  lost  in  the  sound  of  the 
animal's  gallop. 

There  was  some  reason  for  Mme.  Mauperin's  un- 
easiness. Her  feeling  of  constraint  was  certainly 
justified.  Everything  in  the  house  to  which  she  was 
going  was  calculated  to  intimidate  people,  to  set  them 
down,  crush  them,  penetrate  and  overwhelm  them 
with  a  sense  of  their  own  inferiority.  There  was  an 
ostentatious  and  studied  show  of  money,  a  clever  dis- 
play of  wealth.  Opulence  aimed  at  the  humiliation 
of  less  fortunate  beings,  by  all  possible  means  of  in- 
timidation, by  outrageous  or  refined  forms  of  luxury, 
by  the  height  of  the  ceilings,  by  the  impertinent  airs 
of  the  lackeys,  by  the  footman  with  his  silver  chain, 
stationed  in  the  entrance-hall,  by  the  silver  plate  on 
which  everything  was  served,  by  all  kinds  of  princely 
ways  and  customs,  such  as  the  strict  observance  of 
evening  dress,  even  when  mother  and  daughter  were 
dining  alone,  by  an  etiquette  as  rigid  as  that  of  a  small 
German  court.  The  master  and  mistr«ss  were  in  har- 
8  113 


Renee  Mauperin 


mony  with  and  maintained  the  style  of  their  house. 
The  spirit  of  their  home  and  life  was  as  it  were  incar- 
nate in  them. 

The  man,  with  all  that  he  had  copied  from  the 
English  gentry,  his  manners,  his  dress,  his  curled 
whiskers,  his  outward  distinction;  the  woman,  with 
her  grand  manners,  her  supreme  elegance,  all  the 
stiffness  and  formality  of  the  upper  middle  class,  rep- 
resented admirably  the  pride  of  money.  Their  dis- 
dainful politeness,  their  haughty  amiability,  seemed  to 
come  down  to  people.  There  was  a  kind  of  insolence 
which  was  visible  in  their  tastes  even.  M.  Bourjot 
had  neither  any  pictures  nor  any  objects  of  art;  his 
collection  was  a  collection  of  precious  stones,  among 
which  he  pointed  out  a  ruby  worth  a  thousand  pounds, 
one  of  the  finest  in  Europe. 

People  had  overlooked  all  this  display  of  wealth, 
and  the  Bourjot's  salon  was  now  very  much  in  vogue 
and  conspicuous  on  account  of  its  pronounced  tenden- 
cies in  favour  of  the  Opposition  party.  It  had  become, 
in  fact,  one  of  the  three  or  four  important  salons  of 
Paris.  It  had  been  peopled  after  two  or  three  winters 
which  Mme.  Bourjot  had  spent  in  Nice  under  pretext 
of  benefitting  her  health.  She  had  converted  her 
house  there  into  a  kind  of  hotel  on  the  road  to  Italy, 
open  to  all  who  passed  by  provided  they  were  great, 
wealthy,  celebrated,  or  that  they  had  a  name.  At 
her  musical  evenings,  when  Mme.  Bourjot  gave 

114 


Renee  Mauperin 

every  one  an  opportunity  for  admiring  her  beautiful 
voice  and  her  great  musical  talent,  the  celebrities  of 
Europe  and  Parisians  of  repute  met  in  her  drawing- 
room.  Scientists,  great  philosophers  and  aesthetes 
mingled  with  politicians.  The  latter  were  represented 
by  a  compact  group  of  Orleanists  and  a  band  of  Lib- 
erals not  pledged  to  any  party,  in  whose  ranks  Henri 
Mauperin  had  figured  most  assiduously  for  the  past 
year.  A  few  Legitimists  whom  the  husband  brought 
to  his  wife's  salon  were  also  to  be  seen,  M.  Bourjot 
himself  being  a  Legitimist. 

Under  the  Restoration  he  had  been  a  Carbonaro. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  draper,  and  his  birth  and  name 
of  Bourjot  had  from  his  earliest  childhood  exasperated 
him  against  the  nobility,  grand  houses,  and  the  Bour- 
bons. He  had  been  in  various  conspiracies,  and  had 
met  with  M.  Mauperin  at  Carbonari  reunions.  He 
had  figured  in  all  the  tumults,  and  had  been  fond  of 
quoting  Berville,  Saint-Just,  and  Dupin  the  elder. 
After  1830  he  had  calmed  down  and  had  contented 
himself  with  sulking  with  royalty  for  having  cheated 
him  of  his  republic.  He  read  the  National,  pitied  the 
people  of  all  lands,  despised  the  Chambers,  railed  at 
M.  Guizot,  and  was  eloquent  about  the  Pritchard 
affair. 

The  events  of  1848  came  upon  him  suddenly,  and 
the  landowner  then  woke  oip  alarmed  and  rose  erect 
in  the  person  of  the  Carbonaro  of  the  Restoration,  the 


Renee  Mauperin 

Liberal  of  Louis  Philippe's  reign.  The  fall  in  stocks, 
the  unproductiveness  of  houses,  socialism,  the  pro- 
posed taxes,  the  dangers  to  which  State  creditors  were 
exposed,  the  eventful  days  of  June,  and  indeed  every- 
thing which  is  calculated  to  strike  terror  to  the  heart 
of  a  moneyed  man  during  a  revolution,  disturbed  M. 
Bourjot's  equanimity,  and  at  the  same  time  enlight- 
ened him.  His  ideas  suddenly  underwent  a  change, 
and  his  political  conscience  veered  completely  round. 
He  hastened  to  adopt  the  doctrines  of  order,  and 
turned  to  the  Church  as  he  might  have  done  to  the 
police  authorities,  to  the  Divine  right  as  the  supreme 
power  and  a  providential  security  for  his  bills. 

Unfortunately,  in  M.  Bourjot's  brusque  but  sincere 
conversion,  his  education,  his  youth,  his  past,  his 
whole  life  rose  in  revolt.  He  had  returned  to  the 
Bourbons,  but  he  had  not  been  able  to  come  back 
to  Jesus  Christ,  and,  old  man  as  he  now  was,  he  would 
make  all  kinds  of  slips  and  give  utterance  to  the  attacks 
and  refrains  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed.  One 
felt,  the  nearer  one  came  to  him,  that  he  was  still  quite 
a  Voltairean  on  certain  points,  and  Beranger  was  "con- 
stantly taking  the  place  of  de  Maistre  with  him. 

"  Give  the  reins  to  your  brother,  Renee,"  said 
Mme.  Mauperin.  "  I  shouldn't  like  them  to  see  you 
driving." 

They  were  in  front  of  a  magnificent  large  gate- 
116 


Renee  Mauperin 


way,  opposite  which  were  two  lamps  that  were  al- 
ways lighted  and  left  burning  all  night.  The  carriage 
turned  up  a  drive,  covered  with  red  gravel  and  planted 
on  each  side  with  huge  clumps  of  rhododendrons,  and 
drew  up  before  a  flight  of  stone  steps.  Two  footmen 
threw  open  the  glass  doors  leading  into  a  hall  paved 
with  marble  and  with  high  windows  nearly  hidden 
by  the  verdure  of  a  wide  screen  of  exotic  shrubs. 

The  Mauperins  were  then  introduced  into  a  draw- 
ing-room, the  walls  of  which  were  covered  with  crim- 
son silk.  A  portrait  of  Mme.  Bourjot  in  evening 
dress,  signed  by  Ingres,  was  the  only  picture  in  the 
room.  Through  the  open  windows  could  be  seen  a 
pool  of  water,  and  near  it  a  stork,  the  only  creature 
that  M.  Bourjot  would  tolerate  in  his  park,  and  that 
on  account  of  its  heraldic  form. 

When  the  Mauperins  entered  the  large  drawing- 
room,  Mme.  Bourjot,  seated  by  herself  on  the  divan, 
was  listening  to  her  daughter's  governess  who  was 
reading  aloud.  M.  Bourjot  was  leaning  against  the 
chimney-piece  playing  with  his  watch-chain.  Mile. 
Bourjot,  near  her  governess,  was  working  at  some 
tapestry  on  a  frame. 

Mme.  Bourjot,  with  her  large,  rather  hard  blue 
eyes,  her  arched  eye-brows,  and  the  lines  of  her  eye- 
lids, her  haughty  and  pronounced  nose,  the  super- 
cilious prominence  of  the  lower  part  of  the  face, 
and  her  imperious  grace,  reminded  one  of  Georges, 

117 


Renee  Mauperin 


when  young,  in  the  role  of  Agrippina.  Mile.  Bourjot 
had  strongly  marked  brown  eye-brows.  Between  her 
long,  curly  lashes  could  be  seen  two  blue  eyes  with 
an  intense,  profound,  dreamy  expression  in  them.  A 
slight  down  almost  white  could  be  seen  when  the  light 
was  full  on  her,  just  above  her  lip  at  the  two  corners. 
The  governess  was  one  of  those  retiring  creatures, 
one  of  those  elderly  women  who  have  been  knocked 
about  and  worn  out  in  the  battle  of  life,  outwardly  and 
inwardly,  and  who  finally  have  no  more  effigy  left  than 
an  old  copper  coin. 

"Why,  this  is  really  charming!"  said  Mme. 
Bourjot,  getting  up  and  advancing  as  far  as  a  line  of 
the  polished  floor  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  "  What 
kind  neighbours — and  what  a  delightful  surprise!  It 
seems  an  age  since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you, 
dear  madame,  and  if  it  were  not  for  your  son,  who 
is  good  enough  not  to  forsake  us,  and  who  comes  to 
my  Monday  Evenings,  we  should  not  have  known 
what  had  become  of  you — of  this  charming  girl — and 
her  mamma " 

As  she  spoke  Mme.  Bourjot  shook  hands  with 
Henri. 

"  Oh!  you  are  very  kind,"  began  Mme.  Mauperin, 
taking  a  seat  at  some  distance  from  Mme.  Bourjot. 

"  But  please  come  over  here,"  said  Mme.  Bourjot, 
making  room  at  her  side. 

"  We  have  postponed  our  visit  from  day  to  day," 
118 


Renee  Mauperin 

continued  Mme.  Mauperin,  "  as  we  wanted  to  come 
together." 

"  Oh!  well,  it's  very  bad  of  you,"  continued  Mme. 
Bourjot.  "  We  are  not  a  hundred  miles  away;  and 
it  is  cruel  to  keep  these  two  children  apart,  when  they 
grew  up  together.  Why,  how's  this,  they  haven't 
kissed  each  other  yet?  " 

Noemi,  who  was  still  standing,  presented  her 
cheek  coldly  to  Renee,  who  kissed  her  as  eagerly 
as  a  child  bites  into  fruit. 

"  What  a  long  time  ago  it  seems,"  observed  Mme. 
Bourjot  to  Mme.  Mauperin,  as  she  looked  at  the  two 
girls,  "  since  we  used  to  take  them  to  the  RUQ  de  la 
Chaussee  d'Antin  to  those  lectures,  that  bored  us  as 
much  as  they  did  the  poor  children.  I  can  see  them 
now,  playing  together.  Yours  was  just  like  quick- 
silver, a  regular  little  turk,  and  mine —  Oh,  they  were 
like  night  and  day!  But  yours  always  led  mine  on. 
Oh,  dear,  what  a  rage  they  had  at  one  time  for  cha- 
rades— do  you  remember?  They  used  to  carry  off  all 
the  towels  in  the  house  to  dress  up  with." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  exclaimed  Renee,  laughing  and  turn- 
ing to  Noemi,  "  our  finest  one  was  when  we  did  Mara- 

\ 

bout;  with  Marat  in  a  bath  that  was  too  hot,  calling 
out,  '  Je  botts,  je  bous! '  Do  you  remember?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Noemi,  trying  to  keep 
back  a  smile,  "  but  it  was  your  idea." 

"  I  am  so  glad,  madame,  to  find  you  quite  inclined 
119 


Renee  Mauperin 


beforehand  for  what  I  wanted  to  ask  you — for  my 
visit  is  a  selfish  one.  It  was  chiefly  with  the  idea  of 
letting  our  daughters  see  something  of  each  other 
that  I  came.  Renee  wants  to  get  up  a  play,  and  she 
naturally  thought  of  her  old  school-friend.  If  you 
would  allow  your  daughter  to  take  part  in  a  piece 
with  my  daughter — it  would  be  just  a  little  family 
affair — quite  informal." 

As  Mme.  Mauperin  made  this  request,  Noemi, 
who  had  been  talking  to  Renee  and  had  put  her  hand 
in  her  friend's,  drew  it  away  again  abruptly. 

"  Thank  you  so  much  for  the  idea,"  answered 
Mme.  Bourjot,  "  thanks,  too,  to  Renee.  You  could 
not  have  asked  me  anything  that  would  have  suited 
me  better  and  given  me  so  much  pleasure.  I  think  it 
would  be  very  good  for  Noemi — the  poor  child  is  so 
shy  that  I  am  in  despair!  It  would  make  her  talk  and 
come  out  of  herself.  For  her  mind,  too,  it  would  be 
an  excellent  stimulant " 

"  Oh!  but,  mother,  you  know  very  well — why, 
I've  no  memory.  And  then,  too — why,  the  very  idea 
of  acting  frightens  me.  Oh,  no — I  can't  act " 

Mme.  Bourjot  glanced  coldly  at  her  daughter. 

"  But,  mother,  if  I  could —  No,  I  should  spoil 
the  whole  play,  I'm  sure." 

"  You  will  act — I  wish  you  to  do  so." 

Noemi  looked  down,  and  Mme.  Mauperin,  slight- 
ly embarrassed  and  by  way  of  changing  the  subject, 

1 20 


Renee  Mauperin 


glanced  at  a  Review  that  was  lying  open  on  a  work- 
table  at  her  side. 

"  Ah! "  said  Mme.  Bourjot,  turning  to  her  again, 
"  you've  found  something  you  know  there — that  is 
your  son's  last  article.  And  when  do  you  intend  hav- 
ing this  play?  " 

"  Oh,  but  I  should  be  so  sorry  to  be  the  cause — 
to  oblige  your  daughter " 

"  Oh!  don't  mention  it.  My  daughter  is  always 
afraid  of  undertaking  anything." 

"  Well,  but  if  Noemi  really  dislikes  it,"  put  in  M. 
Bourjot,  who  had  been  talking  to  M.  Mauperin  and 
Henri  on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"  On  the  contrary  she  will  be  grateful  to  you," 
said  Mme.  Bourjot,  addressing  Mme.  Mauperin  with- 
out answering  M.  Bourjot.  "  We  are  always  obliged 
to  insist  on  her  doing  anything  for  her  own  enjoy- 
ment. Well,  when  is  this  play?  " 

"  Renee,  when  do  you  think? "  asked  Mme. 
Mauperin. 

"  Why,  I  should  think  about — well,  we  should 
want  a  month  for  the  rehearsals,  with  two  a  week. 
We  could  fix  the  days  and  the  time  that  would  suit 
Noemi." 

Renee  turned  towards  Noemi,  who  remained 
silent. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Mme.  Bourjot,  "  let  us 
say  Monday  and  Friday  at  two  o'clock,  if  that  will 

121 


Renee  Mauperin 

suit  you — shall  we?  "  And  turning  to  the  governess 
she  continued:  "  Mile.  Gogois,  you  will  accompany 
Noemi.  M.  Bourjot — you  hear — will  you  give  orders 
for  the  horses  and  carriage  and  the  footman  to  take 
them  to  Briche?  You  can  keep  Terror  for  me,  and 
Jean.  There,  that's  all  settled.  Now,  then,  you  will 
stay  and  dine  with  us,  won't  you?  " 

"  Oh!  we  should  like  to  very  much;  but  it  is  quite 
impossible.  We  have  some  people  coming  to  us  to- 
day," answered  Mme.  Mauperin. 

"  Oh,  dear,  how  tiresome  of  them  to  come  to-day ! 
But  I  don't  think  you  have  seen  my  husband's  new 
conservatories.  I'll  make  you  a  bouquet,  Renee.  We 
have  a  flower — there  are  only  two  of  them  anywhere, 
and  the  other  is  at  Ferrieres — it's  a — it's  very  ugly 
anyhow — this  way." 

"  Suppose  we  were  to  go  in  here,"  said  M. 
Bourjot,  pointing  to  the  billiard-room,  which  could 
be  seen  through  the  glass  door.  "  M.  Henri,  we'll 
leave  you  with  the  ladies.  We  can  smoke  here," 
added  M.  Bourjot,  offering  a  cabanas  to  M.  Mauperin. 
"  Shall  we  have  cannoning?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  M.  Mauperin. 

M.  Bourjot  closed  the  pockets  of  the  billiard-table. 

"  Twenty-four?  " 

"  Yes,  twenty-four." 

"  Have  you  billiards  at  home,  M.  Mauperin?  " 

"  No,  I  haven't.     My  son  doesn't  play." 
122 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Are  you  looking  for  the  chalk?  " 

"  Thanks.  And  as  my  wife  doesn't  think  it  a 
suitable  game  for  girls " 

"  It's  your  turn." 

"  Oh!  I'm  quite  out  of  practice — I  always  was  a 
duffer  at  it  though." 

"  Well,  but  you  are  not  giving  me  the  game  at 
all.  There,  it's  all  up  with  my  play — I  was  used  to 
that  cue,"  and  M.  Bourjot  gave  vent  to  his  feelings 
in  an  oath.  "  These  rascals  of  workmen — they 
haven't  any  conscience  at  all.  There's  no  getting 
anything  well  made  in  these  days.  Well,  you  are 
scoring:  three,  I'll  mark  it.  The  fact  is  we  are  at 
their  service.  The  other  day,  now,  I  wanted  some 
chandeliers  put  up.  Well,  would  you  believe  it,  M. 
Mauperin,  I  couldn't  get  a  man?  It  was  a  holiday — I 
forget  what  holiday  it  was — and  they  would  not  come 
— they  are  the  lords  of  creation,  nowadays.  Do  you 
imagine  that  they  ever  bring  us  anything  of  what  they 
shoot  or  fish?  Oh,  no,  when  they  get  anything  dainty 
they  eat  it  themselves.  I  know  what  it  is  in  Paris 
— four?  Oh,  come  now!  Every  penny  they  earn  is 
spent  at  the  wine-shop.  On  Sundays  they  spend  at 
least  a  sovereign.  The  locksmith  here  has  a  Lefau- 
cheux  gun  and  takes  out  a  shooting  license.  Ah,  two 
for  me  at  last!  And  the  money  they  ask  now  for 
their  work!  Why,  they  want  four  shillings  a  day  for 
mowing!  I  have  vineyards  in  Burgundy,  and  they 

123 


Renee  Mauperin 

proposed  to  see  to  them  for  me  for  three  years,  and 
then  the  third  year  they  would  be  their  own.  This 
is  what  we  are  coming  to!  Luckily  for  me  I'm  an 
old  man,  so  that  it  won't  be  in  my  time;  but  in  a  hun- 
dred years  from  now  there  will  be  no  such  thing  as 
being  waited  on — there'll  be  no  servants.  I  often  say 
to  my  wife  and  daughter:  '  You'll  see — the  day  will 
come  when  you  will  have  to  make  your  own  beds. 
Five? — six? — you  do  know  how  to  play.  The  Revo- 
lution has  done  for  us,  you  know."  And  M.  Bourjot 
began  to  hum : 

" ' Et  zonzon,  zonzon,  zonzon, 
Zonzon,  zonzon '  " 

"  These  were  not  exactly  your  ideas  some  thirty 
years  ago,  when  we  met  for  the  first  time;  do  you 
remember?  "  said  M.  Mauperin  with  a  smile. 

"  That's  true.  I  had  some  fine  ideas  in  those  days 
— too  fine!  "  replied  M.  Bourjot,  resting  his  left  hand 
on  his  cue.  "  Ah,  we  were  young — I  should  just 
think  I  do  remember.  It  was  at  Lallemand's  funeral. 
— By  Jove!  that  was  the  best  blow  I  ever  gave  in  my 
life — a  regular  knock-you-down.  I  can  see  the  riails 
in  that  police  inspector's  boots  now,  when  I  had 
landed  him  on  the  ground  so  that  I  could  cross  the 
boulevards.  At  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Poissonniere 
I  came  upon  a  patrol — they  set  about  me  with  a 
vengeance.  I  was  with  Caminade — you  knew  Cami- 
nade,  didn't  you?  He  was  a  lively  one.  He  was 

124 


Renee  Mauperin 


the  man  who  used  to  go  and  smoke  his  pipe  at  the 
mission  service  belonging  to  the  Church  of  the 
Petits-Peres.  He  went  with  his  meerschaum  pipe 
that  cost  nearly  sixty  pounds,  and  he  took  a  girl 
from  the  Palais-Royal.  He  was  lucky,  for  he  man- 
aged to  escape,  but  they  took  me  to  the  police  sta- 
tion, belabouring  me  with  the  butt-end  of  their  guns. 
Fortunately  Dulaurens  caught  sight  of  me " 

"Ah — Dulaurens!"  said  M.  Mauperin.  "We 
were  in  the  same  Carbonari  society.  He  had  a  shawl 
shop,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Yes,  and  do  you  know  what  became  of  him?  " 

"  No.     I  lost  sight  of  him." 

"  Well,  one  fine  day — it  was  after  all  this  business 
— his  partner  went  off  to  Belgium,  taking  with  him 
eight  thousand  pounds.  They  put  the  police  on  his 
track,  but  they  could  hear  nothing  of  him.  Our  friend 
Dulaurens  goes  into  a  church  and  makes  a  vow  to 
get  converted  if  he  finds  his  money  again.  They 
find  his  money  for  him  and  now  his  piety  is  simply 
sickening.  I  never  see  him  now;  but  in  the  old 
days  he  was  a  lively  one,  I  can  tell  you.  Well,  when 
I  saw  him  I  gave  him  a  look  and  he  understood. 
You  see,  I  had  twenty-five  guns  in  my  house  and 
five  hundred  cartridges.  When  the  police  went  there 
to  search  he  had  cleared  them  away.  All  the  same  I 
was  kept  three  months  shut  up  in  the  new  building, 
and  two  or  three  times  was  fetched  up  in  the  night 

125 


Renee  Mauperin 


to  be  cross-examined,  and  I  always  went  with  a  vague 
idea  in  my  mind  that  I  was  going  to  be  shot.  You've 
gone  through  it  all,  and  you  know  what  it  is. — And 
all  that  was  for  the  sake  of  Socialism!  And  yet  I 
heard  a  few  words  that  ought  to  have  enlightened 
me.  When  I  was  free  again  one  of  my  prison  friends 
came  to  see  me  at  Sedan.  '  Why,  what's  this,'  he 
said,  'that  I  am  told  at  the  hotel?  It  seems  that 
your  father  has  land  and  money,  and  yet  you  have 
joined  us!  Why,  I  thought  you  hadn't  anything! ' 
Just  fancy  now,  M.  Mauperin — and  when  I  think 
that  even  that  did  not  open  my  eyes!  You  see  I 
was  convinced  in  those  days  that  all  those  with  whom 
I  was  in  league  wanted  simply  what  I  wanted:  laws 
for  rich  and  poor  alike,  the  abolition  of  privileges, 
the  end  of  the  Revolution  of  '89  against  the  nobility 
— I  thought  we  should  stop  there — eleven?  Did  I 
mark  your  last?  I  don't  think  I  did — let  us  say 
twelve.  But,  good  heavens!  when  I  saw  my  re- 
public I  was  disgusted  with  it,  when  I  heard  two 
men,  who  had  just  come  down  from  the  barricades 
in  February,  say,  '  We  ought  not  to  have  left  them 
until  we  had  made  sure  of  two  hundred  a  year! '  And 
then  the  system  of  taxes  according  to  the  income;  it's 
an  iniquity — the  hypocrisy  of  communism.  But  with 
taxes  regulated  by  the  income,"  continued  M.  Bour- 
jot,  eloquently  breaking  off  in  the  midst  of  his  own 
phrase,  "  I  challenge  them  to  find  any  one  who  will 

126 


Renee  Mauperin 

care  to  take  the  trouble  of  making  a  large  fortune — 
thirteen,  fourteen,  fifteen — very  good!  Oh,  you  are 
too  strong  a  player.  All  that  has  made  me  turn  round 
— you  understand?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  replied  M.  Mauperin. 

"  Where's  my  ball — there?  Yes,  it  has  made 
me  turn  completely  round;  it  has  positively  made 
a  Legitimist  of  me.  There — a  bad  cue  again! 
But " 

"  But  what?  " 

"  Well,  there  is  one  thing —  Oh,  on  that  subject, 
now,  I  have  the  same  opinions  still.  I  don't  mind 
telling  you.  Anything  approaching  a  parson — eight- 
een?—  Oh,  come,  I'm  done  for!  We  invite  the  one 
here  in  this  place — he's  a  very  decent  fellow;  but  as 
to  priests — when  you've  known  one  as  I  have,  who 
broke  his  leg  getting  over  the  college  wall  at  night 
— they  are  a  pack  of  Jesuits,  you  know,  M.  Mau- 
perin! 

" '  Hommes  noirs,  d'ou  sortez-vous  ? 
Nous  sortons  de  dessous,  terre.'  " 

"Ah,  that's  my  man!     The  god  of  simple  folks! 

"  '  Mes  amis,  parlons  plus  has : 
Je  vois  Judas,  je  vois  Judas ! '  " 

"Twenty-one!  You've  only  three  more.  Now, 
at  the  place  where  my  iron-works  are,  there's  a 
bishop  who  is  very  easy-going.  Well,  all  the  big- 
ots detest  him.  Now,  if  he  pretended  to  be  a  bigot, 

127 


Renee  Mauperin 


if  he   were  a   hypocrite   and   spent   all   his  time   at 
church " 

"  I  never  saw  Mme.  Bourjot  so  amiable,"  re- 
marked Mme.  Mauperin,  when  she  and  her  family 
were  all  back  in  the  carriage. 

"  An  odd  chap,  that  Bourjot,"  observed  M.  Mau- 
perin. "  It  isn't  much  good  having  a  billiard-table 
of  his  own  either — I  could  have  given  him  a  start 
of  twelve." 

"  I  think  Noemi  is  very  strange,"  said  Renee. 
"  Did  you  see,  Henri,  how  she  wanted  to  get  out 
of  acting?  " 

Henri  did  not  answer. 


128 


XUI 

NOEMI  had  just  entered  Mme.  Mauperin's  draw- 
ing-room followed  by  her  governess.  She  looked 
uncomfortable  and  ill  at  ease,  almost  shy,  in  fact,  but 
on  glancing  round  she  appeared  to  be  somewhat  re- 
assured. She  advanced  to  speak  to  Mme.  Mauperin, 
who  kissed  her.  Renee  then  embraced  her,  and,  jok- 
ing and  laughing  all  the  time,  proceeded  to  take  off 
her  friend's  cape  and  hat. 

"  Ah,  I'm  forgetting,"  she  exclaimed,  turning  the 
dainty  white  hat  trimmed  with  pink  flowers  round 
on  her  hand,  "  let  me  introduce  M.  Denoisel  again. 
You  have  met  him  before  in  the  old  days — that 
sounds  as  though  we  were  quite  aged,  doesn't  it? — 
and  he  is  our  theatrical  manager,  our  professor  of 
elocution,  our  prompter — scene  shifter — everything." 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  how  kind  M.  Denoisel 
used  to  be  to  me  when  I  was  a  little  girl,"  and  Noemi, 
flushing  with  emotion  as  her  thoughts  went  back  to 
her  childhood,  held  out  her  hand  somewhat  awk- 
wardly and  with  such  timidity  that  her  fingers  all 
clung  together. 

129  Vol.  12- F 


Renee  Mauperin 


"Oh,  but  what  a  pretty  costume!"  continued 
Renee,  walking  round  her.  "  You  look  sweet,"  and 
then  patting  her  own  taffeta  dress,  which  was  rather 
the  worse  for  wear,  she  held  out  her  skirt  and  made 
a  low  reverence.  "  You'll  make  a  rather  pretty  Ma- 
thilde — I  shall  be  jealous,  you  know. — But  look, 
mamma,"  she  continued,  drawing  herself  up  to  her 
full  height.  "  I  told  you  so — she  makes  me  quite 
small% — Now,  then — you  see  you  are  much  taller  than 
I  am."  As  she  spoke  she  placed  herself  side  by  side 
with  Noemi  and,  putting  her  arm  round  her  waist,  led 
her  to  the  glass  and  put  her  shoulder  against  her 
friend's.  "  There,  now!  "  she  exclaimed. 

The  governess  was  keeping  in  the  background  at 
the  other  end  of  the  salon.  She  was  looking  at  some 
pictures  in  a  book  that  she  had  only  dared  to  half 
open. 

"  Come,  my  dears,  shall  we  begin  to  read  the 
play?  "  said  Mme.  Mauperin.  "  It's  no  use  waiting 
for  Henri;  he  will  only  come  to  the  last  rehearsals 
when  the  actresses  are  well  on." 

"  Oh,  just  now,  mamma,  let  us  talk  first.  Qome 
and  sit  here,  Noemi.  There — we  have  a  lot  of  little 
secrets,  so  many  things  that  have  happened  since  we 
last  met  to  tell  each  other  about — it  is  ages  ago." 

And  Renee  began  prattling  and  chirping  away 
with  Noemi.  Their  conversation  sounded  like  the 
fresh,  clear,  never-ending  babbling  of  a  brook,  break- 
ISO 


Renee  Mauperin 

ing  off  now  and  again  in  a  peal  of  laughter  and  dying 
away  in  a  whisper.  Noemi,  who  was  very  guarded 
at  first,  soon  gave  herself  up  to  the  delight  of  confid- 
ing in  her  friend  and  of  listening  to  this  voice  which 
brought  back  so  many  memories  of  the  past.  They 
asked  each  other,  as  one  does  after  a  long  absence, 
about  all  that  had  happened  and  what  they  had  each 
been  doing.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  to  judge  by 
their  conversation,  one  would  have  said  they  were  two- 
young  women  who  had  suddenly  become  children 
again  together. 

"  I  go  in  for  painting,"  said  Renee,  "  what  do  you 
do?  You  used  to  have  a  beautiful  voice." 

"  Oh,  don't  mention  that,"  said  Noemi.  "  They 
make  me  sing.  Mamma  insists  on  my  singing  at  her 
big  parties — and  you've  no  idea  how  dreadful  it  is. 
When  I  *see  every  one  looking  at  me,  a  shiver  runs 
through  me.  Oh,  I'm  so  frightened — the  first  few 
times  I  burst  out  crying " 

"  Well,  we'll  have  a  little  refreshment  now.  I've 
saved  a  green  apple  for  you  that  I  was  going  to  eat 
myself.  I  hope  you  still  like  green  apples?  " 

"  No,  thanks,  Renee  dear,  I'm  not  hungry,  really." 

"  I  say,  Denoisel,  what  can  you  see  that  is  so  inter- 
esting— through  that  window?  " 

Denoisel  was  watching  the  Bourjot's  footman  in 
the  garden.  He  had  seen  him  dust  the  bench  with 
a  fine  cambric  handkerchief,  spread  the  handkerchief 

13* 


Renee  Mauperin 


over  the  green  laths,  sit  down  on  it  in  a  gingerly 
way  in  his  red  velvet  breeches,  cross  his  legs,  take  a 
cigar  out  of  his  pocket  and  light  it.  He  was  now 
looking  at  this  man  as  he  sat  there  smoking  in  an 
insolent,  majestic  way,  glancing  round  at  this  small 
estate  with  the  supercilious  expression  of  a  servant 
whose  master  lives  in  a  mansion  and  owns  a  park. 

"  Why,  nothing  at  all,"  said  Denoisel,  coming 
away  from  the  window;  "  I  was  afraid  of  intrud- 
ing." 

"  We  have  told  each  other  all  our  secrets  now;  so 
you  can  come  and  talk  to  us." 

"  You  know  what  time  it  is,  Renee?  "  put  in  Mme. 
Mauperin.  "  If  you  want  to  begin  the  rehearsal 
to-day " 

"  Oh,  mamma,  please — it's  so  warm  to-day — and 
then,  too,  it's  Friday." 

"And  the  year  began  on  a  I3th,"  remarked 
Denoisel  gravely. 

"Ah!"  said  Noemi,  looking  at  him  with  her 
trustful  eyes. 

"  Don't  listen  to  him — he's  taking  you  in.  ^  He 
plays  jokes  of  that  kind  on  you  all  day  long — De- 
noisel does.  We'll  rehearse  next  time  you  come, 
shall  we? — there's  plenty  of  time." 

"  As  you  like,"  answered  Noemi. 

"Very  well,  then;  we'll  take  a  holiday.  Denoisel, 
be  funny — at  once.  And  if  you  are  very  funny — very, 

132 


Renee  Mauperin 


very  funny — I'll  give  you  a  picture— one  of  my 
own " 

"  Another?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  you  are  polite — I  work  myself  to 
death " 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  Denoisel  to  Noemi,  "  you 
shall  judge  of  the  situation.  I  have  now  a  picture 
of  a  mad-apple  and  a  parsnip,  and  then  to  hang  with 
that  a  slice  of  pumpkin  and  a  piece  of  Brie  cheese. 
There's  a  great  deal  of  feeling,  I  know,  of  course,  in 
such  subjects;  but  all  the  same  from  the  look  of  my 
room  any  one  would  take  me  for  a  private  fruiterer." 

"  That's  how  men  are,  you  see,"  said  Renee  gaily 
to  Noemi.  "  They  are  all  ungrateful,  my  dear — and 
to  think  that  some  day  we  shall  have  to  marry.  Do 
you  know  that  we  are  quite  old  maids — what  do  you 
think  of  that?  Twenty  years  old — oh,  how  quickly 
time  goes,  to  be  sure!  We  think  we  shall  never  be 
eighteen,  and  then,  no  sooner  are  we  really  eighteen 
than  it's  all  over  and  we  can't  stay  at  that  age.  Well, 
it  can't  be  helped.  Oh,  next  time  you  come,  bring 
some  music  with  you  and  we'll  play  duets.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  could  now." 

"  And  we  shall  rehearse — quand?  "  asked  Denoisel. 

"In  Normandy!"  answered  Renee,  indulging  in 
that  kind  of  joke  which  for  the  last  few  years  has 
been  in  favour  with  society  people,  and  which  had  its 
origin  in  the  workshop  and  the  theatre.  Noemi 

133 


Renee  Mauperin 

looked  perplexed,  as  though  she  had  not  caught  the 
sense  of  the  word  she  had  just  heard. 

"  Yes,"  said  Renee,  "  Caen  is  in  Normandy.  Ah, 
you  don't  go  in  for  word-endings?  I  used  to  have  a 
mania  for  them  some  time  ago.  I  was  quite  unbeara- 
ble with  it — wasn't  I,  Denoisel?  And  so  you  go  out 
a  great  deal.  Tell  me  about  your  balls." 

Noemi  did  as  she  was  requested,  speaking  freely 
and  getting  gradually  more  and  more  animated.  She 
smiled  as  she  spoke,  and  as  her  restraint  wore  off  her 
movements  and  gestures  were  graceful.  It  seemed 
as  if  she  had  expanded  under  the  influence  of  this  air 
of  liberty,  here  with  Renee  in  this  gay,  cheerful 
drawing-room. 

At  four  o'clock  the  governess  rose  as  if  moved  by 
machinery. 

"  It  is  time  we  started,  mademoiselle,"  she  said. 
"  There  is  a  dinner-party,  you  know,  at  Sannois,  and 
you  will  want  time  to  dress." 


134 


XIV 

"  THIS  time  you  must  not  expect  to  enjoy  your- 
self; we  are  going  to  rehearse  in  good  earnest,"  said 
Denoisel.  "  Mile.  Noemi,  come  and  sit  down  there 
— that's  it.  We  are  ready  now,  are  we  not?  One 
— two — three,"  he  continued,  clapping  his  hands, 
"  begin." 

"  The  fact  is — the  first  scene,"  said  Noemi,  hesi- 
tatingly, "  I  am  not  quite  sure  of  it — I  know  the 
other  better." 

"  The  second,  then?  We'll  begin  with  the  sec- 
ond—  I'll  take  Henri's  part:  'Good  evening,  my 
dear ' " 

Denoisel  was  interrupted  by  a  peal  of  laughter 
from  Renee. 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  she  said  to  Noemi,  "  how  funnily  you 
are  sitting!  You  look  like  a  piece  of  sugar  held  in 
the  sugar-tongs." 

"  Do  I?  "  said  Noemi,  quite  confused  and  trying 
to  find  a  better  pose. 

"  If  only  you  would  be  kind  enough  not  to  inter- 
rupt the  actors,  Renee,"  said  Denoisel.  "  '  Good  even- 

135 


Renee  Mauperin 


ing,  my  dear'  "  he  repeated,  continuing  his  role,  "  '  do 
I  disturb  you?  '  " 

"Oh!  and  where  are  the  purses?"  exclaimed 
Renee. 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  were  to  see  to  them." 

"  I? — not  at  all.  You  were  to  see  to  them.  You 
are  a  nice  one  to  count  on  for  the  stage  properties! 
I  say,  Noemi,  if  you  were  married,  would  it  ever  dawn 
upon  you  to  give  your  husband  a  purse?  It's  rather 
shoppy,  isn't  it?  Why  not  a  smoking-cap,  at  once?  " 

"  Are  we  going  to  rehearse?  "  asked  Denoisel. 

"  Oh,  Denoisel,  you  said  that  just  like  a  man  who 
really  wants  to  go  and  have  a  smoke!  " 

"  I  always  do  want  to  smoke,  Renee,"  answered 
Denoisel,  "  and  especially  when  I  ought  not  to." 

"  Why,  it's  quite  a  vice,  then,  with  you." 

"  I  should  just  think  it  is;  and  so  I  keep  it." 

"  Well,  but  what  pleasure  can  you  find  in 
smoking?  " 

"  The  pleasure  of  a  bad  habit — that  is  the  ex- 
planation of  many  passions.  '  Good  evening,  my 
dear,'  "  he  repeated,  once  more  going  back  to  MY  de 
Chavigny's  arrival  on  the  scene,  "  '  do  I  disturb  you?  ' 

"  Disturb  me,  Henri — what  a  question! "  replied 
Noemi. 

And  the  rehearsal  continued. 


136 


XV 

"  THREE  o'clock,"  said  Renee,  looking  up  at  the 
time-piece  from  the  little  woollen  stocking  she  was 
knitting.  "  Really,  I  begin  to  think  Noemi  will  not 
come  to-day.  She'll  spoil  the  rehearsal.  We  shall 
have  to  fine  her." 

"  Noemi?  "  put  in  Mme.  Mauperin,  as  though  she 
had  just  woke  up.  "  Why,  she  isn't  coming.  Oh,  I 
never  told  you!  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with 
me — I  forget  everything  lately.  She  told  me  last 
time  that  very  probably  she  would  not  be  able  to 
come  to-day.  They  are  expecting  some  people — I 
fancy — I  forget " 

"  Well,  that's  pleasant !  There  is  nothing  more 
tiresome  than  that — to  expect  people  who  don't  come 
after  all.  And  this  morning  when  I  woke  I  said  to 
myself,  *  It's  Noemi's  day.'  I  was  looking  forward 
to  having  her.  Oh,  it's  quite  certain  she  won't  come 
now.  It's  funny  how  I  miss  her  now — Noemi,  when 
she  isn't  here — ever  since  she  began  to  take  me  on 
again.  I  miss  her  just  as  though  she  were  one  of  the 
family.  I  don't  think  her  amusing,  she  isn't  lively, 

137 


Renee  Mauperin 


she  isn't  at  all  gay,  and  then  as  regards  intelligence, 
why,  she's  rather  feeble — you  can  take  her  in  so 
easily.  And  yet — how  is  it  now? — in  spite  of  all  that 
there  is  a  fascination  about  her.  There  is  something 
so  sweet,  so  very  sweet  about  her,  and  it  seems  to 
penetrate  you.  She  calms  your  nerves,  positively, 
and  then  the  effect  she  has  on  you — why,  she 
seems  to  warm  your  heart  for  you,  and  only  by  be- 
ing there,  near  you.  I've  known  lots  of  girls  who 
had  really  more  in  them,  but  they  haven't  what 
she  has.  I've  always  felt  as  cold  as  steel  with  all  of 
them."^ 

"  Oh,  well,  it's  very  simple,"  said  Denoisel.  "  Mile. 
Bourjot  is  of  a  very  affectionate,  loving  disposition. 
There  is  a  sort  of  current  of  affection  between  such 
natures  and  others." 

"  When  she  was  quite  little,  I  can  remember,  she 
was  just  the  same — and  so  sensitive.  How  she  used 
to  cry,  and  how  fond  she  was  of  kissing  me;  it  was 
amazing — she  did  nothing  else,  in  fact.  And  her  face 
tells  you  just  what  she  is,  doesn't  it?  Her  beauty 
seems  to  be  made  up  of  all  the  affection  she  feels, 
and  of  all  that  she  has  left  of  her  childhood  about  her. 
And  above  all  it  is  her  expression.  You  often  feel 
rather  wicked  and  spiteful,  but  when  she  looks  at  you 
with  that  expression  of  hers  it  is  as  though  everything 
of  that  kind  disappears — as  though  something  is  melt- 
ing away.  Would  you  believe  that  I  never  ventured 

138 


Renee  Mauperin 


to  play  a  single  trick  on  her,  and  yet  I  was  a  terrible 
tease  in  the  old  days!  " 

"  Nevertheless,  it's  very  extraordinary  to  be  as 
affectionate  as  all  that,"  said  Mme.  Mauperin. 

"  Oh,  no,  it's  quite  natural,"  answered  Denoisel. 
"  Imagine  a  girl,  who  is  born  with  the  instinct  of 
loving,  just  as  we  have  the  instinct  of  breathing.  She 
is  repelled  by  the  coldness  of  a  mother,  who  feels 
herself  humiliated  by  her  daughter,  and  who  is 
ashamed  of  her;  she  is  repelled  also  by  the  selfishness 
of  a  father,  who  has  no  other  pride,  no  other  love, 
and  no  other  child  but  his  wealth;  well,  a  girl  like 
this  would  be  just  like  Mile.  Bourjot,  and  in  return 
for  any  trifling  interest  you  might  take  in  her,  she 
would  repay  you  by  the  affection  and  the  effusions  of 
which  you  speak.  Her  heart  would  simply  overflow 
with  gratitude  and  love,  and  you  would  see  in  her 
eyes  the  expression  Renee  has  noticed,  an  expression 
which  seems  to  shine  out  through  tears."  » 


139 


XVI 

THE  rehearsals  had  been  going  on  a  fortnight, 
when  one  day  Mme.  Bourjot  herself  brought  her 
daughter  to  the  Mauperins.  After  the  first  greetings 
she  expressed  her  surprise  at  not  seeing  the  chief 
actor. 

"  Oh,  Henri  has  such  a  wonderful  memory,"  said 
Mme.  Mauperin;  "he  will  only  need  a  couple  of 
rehearsals." 

"  And  how  is  it  getting  on?  "  asked  Mme.  Bour- 
jot. "  I  must  own  that  I  tremble  for  my  poor  Noemi. 
Is  it  going  fairly  well?  I  came  to-day,  in  the  first 
place,  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  and  then 
I  thought  I  should  like  to  judge  for  myself " 

"  Oh,  you  can  be  quite  at  your  ease,"  said  Mme. 
Mauperin.  "  You  will  see  how  perfectly  natural  your 
daughter  is.  She  is  quite  charming." 

The  actors  went  to  their  places  and  began  the 
first  scene  of  The  Caprice. 

"  Oh,  you  flattered  her,"  said  Mme.  Bourjot  to 
Mme.  Mauperin  after  the  first  two  or  three  scenes. 
"  My  dear  child,"  she  continued,  turning  to  her 

140 


Renee  Mauperin 


daughter,  "  you  don't  act  as  though  you  felt  it;  you 
are  merely  reciting." 

"  Oh,  madame,"  exclaimed  Renee,  "  you  will 
frighten  all  the  company.  We  need  plenty  of  in- 
dulgence." 

"  You  are  not  speaking  for  yourself,"  answered 
Mme.  Bourjot.  "  If  only  my  poor  child  acted  as 
you  do." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Denoisel  to  Mme.  Bourjot, 
"  let  us  go  on  to  the  sixth  scene,  mademoiselle.  We'll 
hear  what  they  have  to  say  about  that,  for  I  think 
you  do  it  very  well  indeed;  and  as  my  vanity  as  pro- 
fessor is  at  stake,  Mme.  Bourjot  will  perhaps  allow 
me " 

"  Oh,  monsieur,"  said  Mme.  Bourjot,  "  I  do  not 
think  it  has  anything  to  do  with  the  professor  in  this 
case;  you  are  not  responsible  at  all." 

The  scene  was  given  and  Mme.  Bourjot  con- 
tinued, "Yes,  oh  yes,  that  wasn't  bad;  that  might 
pass.  It's  a  namby-pamby  sort  of  scene,  and  that 
suits  her.  Then,  too,  she  does  her  utmost;  there's 
nothing  to  be  said  on  that  score." 

"  Oh,  you  are  severe! "  exclaimed  Mme.  Mau- 
perin. 

"  You  see,  I'm  her  mother,"  murmured  Mme. 
Bourjot,  with  a  kind  of  sigh.  "  And  then  you'll  have 
a  crowd  of  people  here " 

"  Oh,  you  know  one  always  gets  more  people 
141 


Renee  Mauperin 


than  one  wants  on  such  occasions,"  said  Mme.  Mau- 
perin. "  There  is  always  a  certain  amount  of  curios- 
ity. I  suppose  there  will  be  about  a  hundred  and 
fifty  people." 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  make  the  list,  mamma? " 
suggested  Renee,  who  was  anxious  to  spare  Noemi 
the  rest  of  the  rehearsal,  as  she  saw  how  ill  at  ease 
her  friend  was.  "  It  would  be  a  good  way  of  intro- 
ducing our  guests  to  Mme.  Bourjot.  You  will  make 
the  acquaintance  of  our  acquaintances,  madame." 

"  I  shall  be  very  pleased,"  replied  Mme.  Bourjot. 

"  It  will  be  rather  a  mixed  dish,  I  warn  you.  It 
always  seems  to  me  that  the  people  one  visits  are 
rather  like  folks  one  comes  across  in  a  stage-coach." 

"  Oh,  that's  a  delightful  idea — and  so  true  too," 
said  Mme.  Bourjot. 

Renee  took  her  seat  at  the  table  and  began  to 
write  down  with  a  pencil  the  names  of  the  people, 
talking  herself  all  the  time. 

"  First  comes  the  family — we'll  leave  that.  Now, 
then,  who  is  there?  Mme.  and  Mile.  Chanut,  a  girl 
with  teeth  like  the  pieces  of  broken  glass  people  put 
on  their  walls — you  know  what  I  mean.  M.  and 
Mme.  de  Belizard — people  say  that  they  feed  their 
horses  with  visiting-cards." 

"  Renee,  Renee,  come,  what  will  every  one  think 
of  you?  " 

"  Oh,  my  reputation's  made.  I  needn't  trouble 
142 


Renee  Mauperin 

any  more  about  that.  Then,  too,  if  you  imagine  that 
people  don't  say  quite  as  much  about  me  as  I  say— — " 

"  Oh,  let  her  alone,  please,  let  her  alone,"  said 
Mme.  Bourjot  to  Mme.  Mauperin,  and  turning  to 
Renee  she  asked  with  a  smile,  "  And  who  comes 
next?  " 

"  Mme.  Jobleau.  Ah,  she's  such  a  bore  with  her 
story  about  her  introduction  to  Louis  Philippe  at  the 
Tuileries.  '  Yes,  sire;  yes,  sire;  yes,  sire; '  that  was 
all  she  found  to  say.  M.  Harambourg,  who  can't 
stand  any  dust — it  makes  him  faint — every  summer 
he  leaves  his  man-servant  in  Paris  to  get  the  dust 
from  between  the  cracks  of  the  floors.  Mile,  de  la 
Boise,  surnamed  the  Grammar  Dragoon;  she  used  to 
be  a  governess,  and  she  will  correct  you  during  a 
conversation  if  you  make  a  slip  wkh  the  subjunctive 
mood.  M.  Loriot,  President  of  the  Society  for  the 
Destruction  of  Vipers.  The  Cloquemins,  father, 
mother,  and  children,  a  family — well,  like  Pan's  pipes. 
Ah!  to  be  sure,  the  Vineux  are  in  Paris;  but  it's 
no  use  inviting  them;  they  only  go  to  see  people 
who  live  on  the  omnibus  route.  Why,  I  was  for- 
getting the  Mechin  trio — three  sisters — the  Three 
Graces  of  Batignolles.  One  of  them  is  an  idiot, 
one " 

Renee  stopped  short  as  she  saw  Noemi's  scared 
eyes  and  horrified  expression.  She  looked  like  some 
poor,  loving  creature,  who  scarcely  understood,  but 


Renee  Mauperin 


who  had  suddenly  been  troubled  and  stirred  to  the 
depth  of  her  soul  by  all  this  backbiting.  Getting  up 
from  her  seat  Renee  ran  across  and  kissed  her. 
"  Silly  girl!  "  she  said  gently,  "  why,  these  people  I 
am  talking  about  are  not  people  that  I  like." 


XVII 

HENRI  only  came  to  the  last  rehearsals.  He  knew 
the  play  and  was  ready  with  his  part  in  a  week.  The 
Caprice  was  a  very  short  piece  for  the  soiree,  and  it 
was  decided  to  finish  up  with  something  comic.  Two 
or  three  short  plays  given  at  the  Palais  Royal  were 
tried,  but  given  up  as  there  were  not  enough  actors, 
and  finally  a  very  nonsensical  thing  was  chosen  that 
was  just  then  having  a  great  run  in  one  of  the  smaller 
theatres,  and  which  Henri  had  insisted  on  in  spite 
of  Mile.  Bourjot's  apparently  groundless  objection 
to  it.  Considering  her  usual  timidity,  every  one  was 
surprised  at  her  obstinacy  on  this  point;  but  it  seemed, 
since  Henri  had  been  there,  as  if  she  were  not  quite 
herself.  Renee  fancied  at  times  that  Noemi  was  not 
the  same  with  her  now,  and  that  her  friendship  had 
cooled.  She  was  surprised  to  see  a  spirit  of  contra- 
diction in  her  which  she  had  never  known  before,  and 
she  was  quite  hurt  at  Noemi's  manner  to  her  brother. 
She  was  very  cool  with  him,  and  treated  him  with  a 
shade  of  disdain  which  bordered  on  contempt.  Henri 
•was  always  polite,  attentive,  and  ready  to  oblige,  but 

US 


Renee  Mauperin 


nothing  more.  In  all  the  scenes  in  which  he  and 
Noemi  acted  together  he  was  so  reserved,  so  correct, 
and  indeed  so  circumspect,  that  Renee,  who  feared 
that  the  coldness  of  his  acting  would  spoil  the  play, 
joked  him  about  it. 

"  Pooh!  "  he  answered,  "  I'm  like  the  great  actors. 
I'm  keeping  my  effects  for  the  first  night." 


146 


XVIII 

A  SMALL  stage  had  been  put  up  at  the  end  of 
Mme.  Mauperin's  drawing-room,  and  a  leafy  screen, 
made  of  branches  of  pine  and  flowering  shrubs,  hid 
the  footlights  from  view.  Renee,  with  the  help 
of  her  drawing-master,  had  painted  the  drop-scene, 
which  looked  something  like  the  banks  of  the  Seine. 
On  each  side  of  the  stage  was  a  hand-painted  poster 
which  read  as  follows: 

BRICHE    THEATRE 
TO-DAY 

THE   CAPRICE 

AND 

PIERROT,   BIGAMIST 

The  names  of  the  actors  were  at  the  end  of  the 
bill.  All  the  chairs  in  the  house  were  placed  closely 
together  in  rows  in  front  of  the  stage,  and  the  ladies, 
in  evening  dress,  were  seated,  their  skirts,  their  laces, 
the  flashing  of  their  diamonds,  and  their  white  shoul- 
ders all  mingling  together.  The  two  doors  at  the 

147 


Renee  Mauperin 


other  end  of  the  room  leading  into  the  dining-room 
and  the  small  salon  had  been  taken  off  their  hinges, 
and  the  masculine  part  of  the  audience,  in  white  neck- 
ties, were  grouped  together  there  and  standing  on 
tip-toe. 

The  curtain  rose  on  the  first  scene  of  The  Caprice. 
Renee  was  very  lively  as  Mme.  de  Lery;  Henri,  in 
the  role  of  husband,  proved  himself  a  talented  ama- 
teur actor,  as  so  many  young  men  of  a  cold  tempera- 
ment, and  grave  society  men,  often  do.  Noemi,  well 
sustained  by  Henri,  admirably  prompted  by  Denoisel, 
and  slightly  carried  away  by  seeing  the  large  audience, 
played  her  touching  part  as  the  neglected  wife  very 
passably.  This  was  a  great  relief  to  Mme.  Bourjot, 
who  was  seated  in  the  front  row  anxiously  watching 
her  daughter.  Her  vanity  had  been  alarmed  by  the 
thought  of  a  fiasco.  The  curtain  fell,  and  amid  the 
applause  were  heard  shouts  for  "All  the  actors! " 
Her  daughter  had  not  made  herself  ridiculous,  and 
the  mother  was  delighted  with  this  great  success  and 
gave  herself  up  complacently  to  listening  to  that 
Babel  of  voices,  opinions,  and  criticisms,  which"  at 
amateur  dramatic  performances  succeeds  the  ap- 
plause and  continues  it,  as  it  were,  in  a  sort  of  murmur. 
In  the  midst  of  it  all  she  heard  vaguely  one  phrase, 
spoken  near  her,  that  came  to  her  distinctly  and 
seemed  to  rise  above  the  general  hubbub. 

"  Yes,  it's  his  sister,  I  know,"  some  one  was  say- 
148 


Renee  Mauperin 

ing;  "but  for  the  role  he  takes  I  don't  think  he  is 
sufficiently  in  love  with  her;  he  is  really  far  too  much 
in  love  with  his  wife — didn't  you  notice?  " 

The  lady  who  was  speaking  saw  that  Mme.  Bour- 
jot  was  listening,  and,  leaning  towards  her  neighbour, 
whispered  something  to  her.  This  little  incident 
made  Mme.  Bourjot  turn  very  serious. 

After  an  interval  the  curtain  was  once  more  raised, 
and  Henri  Mauperin  appeared  as  Pierrot,  but  not 
arrayed  in  the  traditional  calico  blouse  and  black  cap. 
He  was  an  Italian  Pierrot,  with  a  straight  felt  hat, 
and  was  entirely  clothed  in  satin  from  his  coat  to  his 
slippers.  There  was  a  movement  among  the  ladies, 
which  meant  that  they  thought  both  the  man  and  the 
costume  charming,  and  then  the  buffoonery  began. 

It  was  the  silly  story  of  Pierrot  married  to  one 
woman  and  wishing  to  marry  another;  a  farce  mingled 
with  passion,  which  had  been  discovered  by  a  vaude- 
ville-writer, aided  by  a  poet,  among  the  stock-pieces 
of  the  old  Italian  theatre.  Renee  took  the  part  of  the 
deserted  wife,  this  time,  appearing  in  various  dis- 
guises when  her  husband  was  love-making  elsewhere. 
Noemi  was  the  woman  with  whom  he  was  in  love, 
and  Henri  delighted  the  house  in  his  love  scenes  with 
her.  He  acted  well,  putting  plenty  of  youthful  ar- 
dour, enthusiasm,  and  warmth  into  his  part.  In  the 
scene  where  he  confessed  his  love,  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  voice  and  expression  that  seemed  like  a 

149 


Renee  Mauperin 


real  declaration,  which  had  escaped  him,  and  which  he 
could  not  keep  back.  Noemi  certainly  had  made  up 
as  the  prettiest  Colombine  imaginable.  She  looked 
perfectly  adorable,  dressed  as  a  bride  in  a  Louis  XVI 
costume  copied  exactly  from  the  Bride's  Minuet,  an 
engraving  by  Debucourt  lent  by  M.  Barousse.  All 
around  Mme.  Bourjot  it  seemed  as  if  every  one 
were  bewitched,  the  sympathetic  public  appeared  to 
be  helping  and  encouraging  the  handsome  young 
couple  to  love  each  other.  The  piece  continued,  and 
every  now  and  then  it  was  as  though  Henri's  eyes 
were  seeking,  beyond  the  footlights,  the  eyes  of  Mme. 
Bourjot.  Meanwhile  Renee  arrived,  disguised  as  a 
village  bailiff:  there  was  only  the  contract  to  be  signed 
now,  and  Pierrot,  taking  the  hand  of  the  girl  he  loved, 
began  to  speak  of  all  the  happiness  he  should  have 
with  her. 

The  lady  who  was  seated  next  Mme.  Bourjot  felt 
her  leaning  slightly  on  her  shoulder.  Henri  finished 
his  speech,  the  plot  came  to  the  climax,  and  the  piece 
ended.  Mme.  Bourjot's  neighbour  suddenly  saw 
something  sink  down  at  her  side;  it  was  Mme. 
Bourjot,  who  had  fainted. 


150 


HOURJOT   HAD    FAINTED 


XIX 

"  OH,  do  go  in  again,  please,"  said  Mme.  Bourjot 
to  the  people  who  were  standing  round  her  in  the 
garden,  to  which  she  had  been  carried  for  air.  "  It's 
all  over;  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  me  now;  it 
was  the  heat."  She  was  very  pale,  but  she  smiled  as 
she  spoke.  "  I  shall  be  quite  right  again  when  I  have 
had  a  little  more  air.  M.  Henri  will  perhaps  stay 
with  me." 

Every  one  returned  to  the  house,  and  the  sound 
of  the  footsteps  had  scarcely  died  away,  when  Mme. 
Bourjot  seized  Henri's  arm  in  a  firm  grip  with  her 
feverish  fingers. 

"  You  love  her! "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  love 
her! " 

"  Madame,"  said  Henri. 

"Be  quiet;  you  won't  tell  me  the  truth!"  she 
exclaimed,  pushing  his  arm  away. 

Henri  merely  bowed  without  attempting  to  speak. 

"  I  know  all.  I  saw  everything.  Look  at  me!  " 
she  went  on,  and  she  gazed  into  his  eyes.  He  kept 
his  head  bent  and  was  silent.  "  Say  something,  any- 


Renee  Mauperin 


how — speak.  Ah,  you  can  only  act  comedy  with 
her! " 

"  The  fact  is  I  have  nothing  to  say,  Laure,"  re- 
plied Henri,  speaking  in  his  gentlest  and  clearest 
voice.  Mme.  Bourjot  drew  back  when  he  called  her 
Laure  as  if  he  had  touched  her.  "  I  have  been  strug- 
gling against  it  for  the  last  year,  madame,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  I  will  not  attempt  to  make  any  excuse;  but 
everything  has  drawn  me  to  her.  We  have  known 
each  other  from  childhood,  and  the  fascination  has 
increased  lately  day  by  day.  I  am  very  sorry,  madame, 
to  have  to  tell  you  the  truth;  but  it  is  quite  true  that  I 
love  your  daughter." 

"  But  you  never  can  have  talked  to  her,  surely? 
Why,  I  blush  for  her  when  we  are  out — you  surely 
have  not  even  looked  at  her.  What  in  the  world  pos- 
sesses you  men,  tell  me!  Do  you  think  she  is  beau- 
tiful? What  nonsense!  why,  I  am  better  looking  than 
she  is.  You  are  so  foolish,  all  of  you.  And  then,  I 
have  spoiled  you.  You'll  see  whether  she  will  pamper 
your  pride,  let  you  revel  in  your  vanity,  and  flatter 
and  help  you  in  your  ambitions.  Oh,  I  know  you 
thoroughly.  Ah,  M.  Mauperin,  all  this  is  only  met 
with  once  in  a  lifetime.  And  women  of  my  age — old 
women,  you  understand — are  the  only  ones  who  care 
about  the  future  of  those  they  love.  You  were  not  my 
lover;  you  were  like  a  dear  son  to  me!  "  As  she  said 
this,  Mme.  Bourjot's  voice  changed  and  she  spoke 

152 


Renee  Mauperin 


with  the  deepest  feeling.  "  That's  enough,  though; 
we  won't  talk  about  that,"  she  continued  in  a  different 
tone.  "  I  tell  you  that  you  don't  love  my  daughter — 
it  is  not  true — but  she  is  rich " 

"Oh,  madamel*" 

"  Well,  there  are  men  like  that — I  have  had  them 
pointed  out  to  me.  Sometimes  it  succeeds  to  begin 
with  the  mother  in  order  to  finish  with  the  dowry. 
And  for  the  sake  of  a  million,  you  know,  one  can 
put  up  with  being  bored." 

"  Speak  more  quietly,  I  beg  you — for  your  own 
sake.  They  have  just  opened  one  of  the  windows." 

"  It's  very  fine  to  be  so  calm  and  collected,  M. 
Mauperin,  very  fine — very  fine  indeed,"  said  Mme. 
Bourjot,  and  her  low,  hissing  voice  sounded  choked. 

Some  clouds  that  were  moving  quickly  along  in 
the  sky  passed  like  the  wings  of  night-birds  over  the 
moon,  and  Mme.  Bourjot  gazed  blankly  into  the  dark- 
ness in  front  of  her.  With  her  elbows  resting  on  her 
knees  and  supported  by  her  high  heels,  she  remained 
silent,  tapping  the  gravel  path  with  her  satin  slippers. 
After  a  few  minutes  she  sat  up,  moved  her  arms 
about  in  an  unconscious  way  as  though  she  were 
scarcely  awake,  then  quickly,  and  in  a  jerky  way,  she 
put  her  hand  between  her  dress  and  waistband,  press- 
ing the  back  of  her  hand  against  the  ribbon  as  though 
she  were  going  to  burst  it.  Finally  she  rose  and 
began  to  walk,  followed  by  Henri. 

153 


Renee  Mauperin 


"I  count  on  our  never  seeing  each  other  again, 
monsieur,"  she  said,  without  turning  round. 

As  she  passed  by  the  fountain  she  handed  him  her 
handkerchief,  saying,  "  Will  you  dip  that  in  the  water 
for  me?  " 

Henri  obeyed,  kneeling  down  on  the  curbstone. 
He  handed  her  the  damp  handkerchief,  and  she 
pressed  it  to  her  forehead  and  her  eyes. 

"We  will  go  in  now,"  she  said;  "give  me  your 
arm." 

"Oh,  madame,  how  courageous  you  are!"  said 
Mme.  Mauperin,  advancing  to  meet  Mme.  Bourjot 
when  she  entered  the  room.  "  It  is  not  wise  of  you, 
though,  at  all.  I  will  have  your  carriage  ordered." 

"  No,  please  don't,  thank  you,"  replied  Mme. 
Bourjot  quickly.  "  I  think  I  promised  you  that  I 
would  sing;  I  am  quite  ready  now,"  and  she  went 
across  to  the  piano,  gracious  and  valiant  once  more, 
with  that  heroic  smile  beneath  which  society  actors 
conceal  from  the  public  the  tears  they  are  weeping 
within  themselves,  and  the  wounds  which  discharge 
themselves  into  their  hearts.  * 


154 


XX 

MME.  BOURJOT  had  married  in  order  that  two 
important  business  houses  should  be  united;  for  the 
sake  of  amalgamating  various  interests  she  had  been 
wedded  to  a  man  whom  she  did  not  know,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  week  of  married  life  she  had  felt  all  the  con- 
tempt that  a  wife  can  possibly  feel  for  a  husband.  It 
was  not  that  she  had  expected  anything  very  ideal,  nor 
that  she  had  looked  on  marriage  as  a  romantic  and 
imaginative  girl  so  often  does.  She  was  remarkably 
intelligent  herself,  and  seriously  inclined,  her  mind 
had  been  formed  and  nurtured  by  reading,  study,  and 
acquirements  which  were  almost  more  suitable  for 
a  man.  All  that  she  asked  from  the  companion  of 
her  life  was  that  he  should  be  intellectual  and  intelli- 
gent, a  being  in  whom  she  could  place  all  her  ambi- 
tions and  her  pride  as  a  married  woman,  a  man  with 
a  brilliant  future  before  him,  capable  of  winning  for 
himself  one  of  those  immense  fortunes  to  which 
money  nowadays  leads,  and  who  should  prove  himself 
able  to  leap  over  the  gaps  of  modern  society  to  a  high 
place  in  the  Ministry,  the  Public  Works,  or  the 
Exchequer. 

155 


Renee  Mauperin 


All  her  castles  in  the  air  crumbled  away  with  this 
husband,  whom  she  found  day  by  day  more  and  more 
hopelessly  shallow,  more  and  more  incapable,  devoid 
of  all  that  should  have  been  in  him,  and  which  was 
in  her  instead,  more  narrow-minded,  more  mean  and 
petty  as  time  went  on,  and  all  this  mingled  with  and 
contradicted  by  all  the  violences  and  weaknesses  of  a 
childish  disposition. 

It  was  her  pride  that  had  preserved  Mme.  Bourjot 
from  adultery,  a  pride  which,  it  may  be  said,  was  aid- 
ed by  circumstances.  When  she  was  young,  Mme. 
Bourjot,  who  was  of  a  spare  build  and  southern  type, 
had  features  which  were  too  pronounced  to  be  pleas- 
ing or  beautiful.  When  she  was  about  thirty-four 
she  began  to  get  rather  more  plump,  and  it  seemed 
then  that  another  woman  had  evolved  from  the  one 
she  had  been.  Her  features,  though  still  strongly 
pronounced,  became  softer  and  more  pleasing;  the 
hardness  of  her  expression  appeared  to  have  melted 
away,  and  her  whole  face  smiled.  It  was  one  of  those 
autumn  beauties  such  as  age  brings  to  certain  women, 
making  one  wish  to  have  seen  them  as  they  were  "at 
twenty;  a  beauty  which  makes  one  imagine  for  them 
a  youthfulness  they  never  had.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
then,  so  far  Mme.  Bourjot  had  not  run  any  great 
danger,  nor  had  she  known  any  very  great  tempta- 
tions. The  society,  which  on  account  of  her  tastes 
she  had  chosen,  her  surroundings,  the  men  who  fre- 

156 


Renee  Mauperin 

quented  her  salon  and  whom  she  met  elsewhere,  had 
scarcely  made  it  necessary  for  her  to  stand  seriously 
on  the  defensive.  They  were,  for  the  most  part, 
academicians,  savants,  elderly  literary  men,  and  poli- 
ticians, all  of  them  unassuming  and  calm,  men  who 
seemed  old,  some  of  them  from  stirring  up  the  past 
and  the  others  the  present.  Satisfied  with  very  little, 
they  were  happy  with  a  mere  nothing — the  presence 
of  a  woman,  a  flattering  speech,  or  the  expression 
of  eyes  that  were  drinking  in  their  words.  Accus- 
tomed to  their  academic  adoration,  Mme.  Bourjot 
had,  without  much  risk,  allowed  it  free  scope  and 
had  treated  it  with  jests  like  an  Egeria:  it  had  been  a 
flame  which  did  not  scorch,  and  with  which  she  had 
been  able  to  play. 

But  the  time  of  maturity  arrived  for  Mme.  Bour- 
jot. A  great  transformation  in  her  face  and  figure 
took  place.  Tormented,  as  it  were,  by  health  which 
was  too  robust  and  an  excess  of  vitality,  she  seemed  to 
lose  the  strength  morally  which  she  was  gaining  phys- 
ically. She  had  a  great  admiration  for  her  past,  and 
she  felt  now  that  she  was  less  strong-minded,  and 
that  there  was  less  assurance  in  her  pride  than 
formerly. 

It  was  just  at  this  time  that  Henri  Mauperin 
had  made  his  appearance  in  her  drawing-room.  He 
seemed  to  her  young,  intelligent,  serious,  and  thor- 
ough, equipped  for  the  victories  of  life  with  all  those 

157 


Renee  Mauperin 


dispassionate  and  unwavering  qualities  that  she  had 
dreamed  before  her  marriage  of  finding  in  a  husband. 
Henri  had  seized  the  situation  at  a  glance,  and,  divin- 
ing his  own  chances,  he  made  his  plans  and  swooped 
down  on  this  woman  as  his  prey.  He  began  to  make 
love  to  her,  and  this  woman,  who  had  a  husband  and 
daughter,  who  had  been  a  faithful  wife  for  twenty 
years,  and  who  held  a  high  position  in  Parisian 
society,  scarcely  waited  for  him  to  tempt  her.  She 
yielded  to  him  at  their  first  interview,  conducting  her- 
self like  a  mere  cocotte.  Her  love  became  a  mad 
passion  with  her,  as  it  so  frequently  does  with  women 
of  her  age,  and  Henri  proved  himself  a  genius  in  the 
art  of  attaching  her  to  himself  and  of  chaining  her,  as 
it  were,  to  her  sin.  He  never  betrayed  himself,  and 
never  for  an  instant  allowed  her  to  see  a  sign  of  the 
weariness,  the  indifference,  or  the  contempt  that  a 
man  feels  after  a  too  easy  conquest,  or  of  that  sort 
of  disgust  with  which  certain  situations  of  a  woman 
in  love  inspire  him.  He  was  always  affectionate,  and 
always  appeared  to  be  deeply  moved.  He  had  for 
Mme.  Bourjot  those  transports  of  love  and  jealousy, 
all  those  scruples,  little  attentions,  and  thoughtful- 
ness  which  a  woman,  after  a  certain  age,  no  longer 
expects  from  her  lover.  He  treated  her  as  if  she 
were  a  young  girl,  and  begged  her  to  give  him  a 
ring  which  she  always  wore,  and  which  had  been 
one  of  her  confirmation  presents.  He  put  up  with 

158 


Renee  Mauperin 


all  the  childishness  and  coquetry  which  was  so  ridicu- 
lous in  the  passion  of  this  mother  of  a  family,  and 
he  encouraged  it  all  without  a  sign  of  impatience 
on  his  face  or  a  shade  of  mockery  in  his  voice.  At 
the  same  time  he  made  himself  entirely  master  of 
her,  accustoming  her  to  be  docile  and  obedient  to 
him,  revealing  to  her  such  passionate  love  that  Mme. 
Bourjot  was  both  grateful  to  him  and  proud  of  her 
victory  over  this  apparently  cold  and  reserved  young 
man.  When  he  was  thus  completely  master  of  her, 
Henri  worked  her  up  still  more  by  impressing  her 
with  the  danger  of  their  meetings  and  the  risks  there 
were  in  their  liaison,  while  by  all  the  emotions  of  a 
criminal  passion  he  excited  her  imagination  to  such 
a  pitch  of  fear  that  her  love  increased  with  the  very 
thought  of  all  she  had  to  lose. 

She  finally  reached  that  stage  when  she  only 
lived  through  him  and  for  him,  by  his  presence,  his 
thoughts,  his  future,  his  portrait,  all  that  remained 
to  her  of  him  after  she  had  seen  him.  Before  leav- 
ing him  she  would  stroke  his  hair  with  her  hands 
and  then  put  her  gloves  on  quickly.  And  all  day 
afterward,  when  she  was  at  home  again  with  her 
husband  and  her  daughter,  she  would  put  the  palms 
of  her  hands,  which  she  had  not  washed  since, 
to  her  face  and  inhale  the  perfume  of  her  lover's 
hair. 

This  soiree,  and  this  treason  and  rupture  at  the 
159 


Renee  Mauperin 


end  of  a  year,  completely  crushed  Mme.  Bourjot. 
She  felt  at  first  as  if  she  had  received  a  blow,  and 
her  life  seemed  to  be  ebbing  away  through  the  wound. 
She  fancied  she  was  really  dying,  and  there  was  a 
certain  sweetness  in  this  thought.  The  following  day 
she  hoped  Henri  would  come.  She  was  vanquished 
and  quite  prepared  to  beg  his  pardon,  to  tell  him  that 
she  had  been  in  the  wrong,  to  beg  him  to  forgive  her, 
to  entreat  him  to  be  kind  to  her,  and  to  allow  her 
to  gather  up  the  crumbs  of  his  love.  She  waited  a 
week,  but  Henri  did  not  come.  She  asked  him  for 
an  interview  that  he  might  return  her  letters,  and 
he  sent  them  to  her.  She  wrote  and  begged  to  see 
him  for  the  last  time  that  she  might  bid  him  fare- 
well. Henri  did  not  answer  her  letter,  but,  through 
his  friends  and  through  the  newspaper  and  society 
gossip,  he  contrived  to  let  Mme.  Bourjot  hear  the 
rumour  of  an  action  that  had  been  taken  against 
him  for  one  of  his  articles  on  the  misery  of  the  poor. 
For  a  whole  week  he  managed  to  keep  her  mind 
occupied  with  the  ideas  of  police  and  police  courts, 
prison,  and  all  that  the  dramatic  imagination  of  a 
woman  pictures  to  itself  as  the  consequence  of  a 
lawsuit. 

When  the  Attorney-General  assured  Mme.  Bour- 
jot that  the  action  would  not  be  taken,  she  felt  quite 
a  coward  after  all  the  terror  she  had  gone  through, 
and  weak  and  helpless  from  emotion,  she  could  not 

160 


Renee  Mauperin 


endure  any  more,  and  so  wrote  in  desperation  to 
Henri: 

"  To-morrow  at  two  o'clock.  If  you  a-re  not 
there  I  shall  wait  on  the  stair-case.  I  shall  sit  down 
on  one  of  the  stairs  till  you  come." 


vol.  «— <* 


XXI 

HENRI  was  ready,  and  had  taken  great  pains  to 
dress  for  the  occasion  in  an  apparently  careless  style. 
He  was  wearing  one  of  those  morning  suits  in  which 
a  young  man  nearly  always  looks  well. 

At  the  time  appointed  in  the  letter  there  was  a 
ring  at  the  door.  Henri  opened  it  and  Mme.  Bourjot 
entered.  She  passed  by  and  walked  on  in  front  of 
him  as  though  she  knew  the  way,  until  she  reached 
the  study.  She  took  a  seat  on  the  divan,  and  neither 
of  them  spoke  a  word.  There  was  plenty  of  room 
by  her  on  the  divan,  but  Henri  drew  up  a  smoking- 
chair,  which  he  turned  round,  and,  sitting  down  astride 
on  it,  folded  his  arms  over  the  back. 

Mme.  Bourjot  lifted  her  double  lace  veil  and 
turned  it  back  over  her  hat.  Holding  her  -head 
slightly  aside,  and  with  one  hand  pulling  the  glove 
slowly  off  the  other,  she  gazed  at  the  things  on  the 
wall  and  on  the  mantel-shelf.  She  gave  a  little  sigh  as 
if  she  were  alone,  and  then,  glancing  at  Henri,  she 
said: 

"  There  is  some  of  my  life  here — something  of 
162 


Renee  Mauperin 


me — in  all  that."  She  held  out  her  ungloved  hand  to 
him,  and  Henri  kissed  the  tips  of  her  fingers  re- 
spectfully. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  went  on,  "  I  did  not  intend 
speaking  of  myself;  I  have  not  come  here  for  that. 
Oh,  you  need  not  be  afraid,  I  am  quite  sensible  to-day, 
I  assure  you.  The  first  moment — well,  the  first  mo- 
ment was  hard!  I  won't  deny  that  I  had  to  pull 
myself  together,"  she  continued,  with  a  tearful  smile, 
"  but  it's  all  over  now.  I  scarcely  suffer  any  more, 
and  I  am  quite  myself  again,  I  assure  you.  Of  course 
everything  cannot  be  forgotten  all  in  a  minute,  and 
I  won't  say  that  you  are  nothing  to  me  now — for  you 
would  not  believe  me.  But  this  I  can  assure  you, 
and  you  must  believe  me,  Henri,  there  is  no  more 
love  for  you  in  my  heart.  I  am  no  longer  weak;  the 
woman  within  me  is  dead— quite  dead,  and  the  affec- 
tion I  have  for  you  now  is  quite  pure." 

The  light  seemed  to  annoy  her  as  she  spoke,  as 
if  it  were  some  one  gazing  at  her.  "  Will  you  put  the 
blind  down,  dear?  "  she  said.  "  The  sun — my  eyes 
have  rather  hurt  me  the  last  few  days." 

While  Henri  was  at  the  window  she  arranged  her 
hat  and  let  the  cloak  she  was  wearing  drop  from  her 
shoulders.  When  the  light  was  not  so  strong  in  the 
room  she  began  again: 

"  Yes,  Henri,  after  struggling  a  long  time,  and  en- 
during such  anguish  as  you  will  never  know,  after 

163 


Renee  Mauperin 


passing  nights  such  as  I  hope  you  may  never  have,  and 
after  crying  and  praying,  I  have  conquered  myself. 
I  have  won  the  victory,  and  I  can  now  think  of  my 
daughter's  happiness  without  being  jealous,  and  of 
yours  as  the  only  happiness  now  left  for  me  on  earth." 

"  You  are  an  angel,  Laure,"  said  Henri,  getting 
up  and  walking  up  and  down  the  room  as  though  he 
were  greatly  agitated.  "  But  you  must  look  at  things 
as  they  are.  You  were  quite  right  the  other  day 
when  you  said  that  we  must  separate  forever — never 
see  each  other  again.  The  idea  of  our  constantly 
meeting!  You  know  we  could  not.  It  would  take 
so  little  to  open  wounds  as  slightly  closed  as  ours 
are.  Then,  too,  even  if  you  are  sure  of  yourself,  how 
do  you  know  that  I  am  as  sure  of  myself?  How  can 
I  tell — if  we  were  meeting  at  all  times — with  such  con- 
stant temptation — if  I  were  always  near  you,"  he  said, 
speaking  very  tenderly,  "  why,  some  day,  unexpect- 
edly— how  can  I  tell — and  I  am  an  honourable  man." 

"  No,  Henri,"  she  answered,  taking  his  hands  in 
hers  and  drawing  him  to  the  seat  at  her  side,  "  I  am 
not  afraid  of  you,  and  I  am  not  afraid  of  myself. v  It 
is  all  over.  How  can  I  make  you  believe  me?  And 
you  will  not  refuse  me?  No,  you  cannot  refuse  me 
the  only  happiness  which  remains  for  me — my  only 
happiness.  It  is  all  I  have  left  in  the  world  now — it 
is  to  see  you,  only  to  see  you — "  and  throwing  her 
arms  round  Henri's  neck  she  drew  him  to  her  closely. 

164 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Ah,  no,  it  is  quite  impossible,"  said  Henri,  when 
the  embrace  had  lasted  a  few  seconds.  "  Don't  say 
any  more  about  it,"  he  .continued,  brusquely,  getting 
up  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  will  be  brave,"  said  Mme.  Bourjot  very 
seriously. 

When  they  had  played  out  their  comedy  of  renun- 
ciation they  both  felt  more  at  ease. 

"  Now,  then,  listen  to  me,"  began  Mme.  Bourjot 
once  more,  "  my  husband  will  give  you  his  daughter." 

"  How  foolish  you  are,  really,  Laure." 

"  Don't  interrupt  me — my  husband  will  give  you 
his  daughter.  I  fancy  he  intends  asking  his  son-in- 
law  to  live  in  the  same  house.  Of  course  you  would 
be  quite  free — your  suite  of  rooms,  your  carriage, 
meals,  and  everything  quite  apart — you  know  what 
our  style  of  living  is.  Unless  M.  Bourjot  has  changed 
his  mind,  she  will  have  a  dowry  of  forty  thousand 
pounds,  and  unless  he  should  lose  his  money,  which 
I  do  not  think  is  very  probable,  you  will  have,  at  our 
death,  four  or  five  times  that  amount." 

"  And  how  can  you  seriously  imagine  that  Mile. 
Bourjot,  who  has  forty  thousand  pounds,  and  who 
will  have  four  or  five  times  that  much,  would  mar- 
ry " 

"  I  am  her  mother,"  answered  Mme.  Bourjot  in 
a  decisive  tone.  "  And  then — don't  you  love  her? 
Why,  it  would  merely  be  a  kind  of  marriage  of  ex- 

165 


Renee  Mauperin 


pediency,"  and  Mme.  Bourjot  smiled.     "  You  pro- 
vide her  with  happiness." 

"  But  what  will  the  world  say?  " 

"The  world?  My  dear  boy,  we  should  close  the 
world's  mouth  with  truffles,"  and  she  gave  her  shoul- 
ders a  little  shrug. 

"  And  M.  Bourjot?  " 

"  That's  my  part.  He  will  like  you  very  much 
before  the  end  of  two  months.  The  only  thing  is, 
as  you  know,  he  will  want  a  title;  he  has  always 
intended  his  daughter  to  marry  a  count.  All  I  can 
do  is  to  get  him  to  consent  to  a  name  tacked  on  to 
yours.  Nothing  is  simpler,  nowadays,  than  to  get 
permission  to  add  to  one's  name  the  name  of  some 
estate,  or  forest,  or  even  the  name  of  a  meadow,  or 
a  bit  of  land  of  any  sort.  Didn't  I  hear  some  one 
talking  to  your  mother  about  a  farm  called  Villacourt 
that  you  have  in  the  Haute-Marne?  Mauperin  de 
Villacourt;  that  would  do  very  well.  You  know,  as 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  how  little  I  care  about  such 
things." 

"  Oh,  but  it  would  be  so  ridiculous,  with  my  prin- 
ciples, and  a  Liberal,  too,  bound  as  I  am.  And  then, 
you  know " 

"  Oh,  you  can  say  it  is  a  whim  of  your  wife's. 
Every  one  goes  about  with  names  like  that  now;  it's 
a  sort  of  cross  people  have  to  bear.  Shall  I  say  a 
word  for  you  to  any  one  in  authority?  " 

166 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Oh,  no;  no,  please  don't!  I  didn't  think  I  had 
said  anything  which  could  make  you  imagine  I  should 
be  inclined  to  accept.  I  don't  really  know,  frankly. 
You  understand  that  I  should  have  to  think  it  over, 
I  should  have  to  collect  myself  and  consider  what 
my  duty  is;  to  be  more  myself,  in  fact,  and  less  influ- 
enced by  you,  before  I  could  give  you  an  answer." 

"  I  shall  call  on  your  mother  this  week,"  said 
Mme.  Bourjot,  getting  up  and  pressing  his  hand. 
"  Good-bye,"  she  said  sadly;  "  life  is  a  sacrifice! " 


167 


XXII 

"  RENEE,"  said  Mme.  Mauperin  one  evening  to 
her  daughter,  "  shall  we  go  and  see  Lord  Mansbury's 
collection  of  pictures  to-morrow?  It  appears  that  it 
is  very  curious;  people  say  that  one  of  the  pictures 
would  fetch  four  thousand  pounds.  M.  Barousse 
thought  it  would  interest  you,  and  he  has  sent  me 
the  catalogue  and  an  invitation.  Should  you  like 
to  go?  " 

"  Rather.  I  should  just  think  I  should  like  to  go," 
replied  Renee. 

The  following  morning  she  was  very  much  sur- 
prised to  see  her  mother  come  into  the  room  while 
she  was  dressing,  busy  herself  with  her  toilette,  and 
insist  on  her  putting  on  her  newest  hat. 

"  There  are  always  so  many  people  at  these  ex- 
hibitions," said  Mme.  Mauperin,  arranging  the  bows 
on  the  hat,  "  and  you  must  be  dressed  as  well  as 
every  one  else." 

Although  it  was  a  private  exhibition  there  were 
crowds  of  people  in  the  room  on  the  first  floor  of 
the  Auction  Buildings,  where  Lord  Mansbury's  col- 

168 


Renee  Mauperin 


lection  was  on  -view.  The  fame  of  the  pictures,  and 
the  scandal  of  such  a  sale,  which  it  was  said  had  been 
necessitated  by  Lord  Mansbury's  folly  in  connection 
with  a  Palais  Royal  actress,  had  attracted  all  the 
habitues  of  the  Hotel  Drouot;  those  people  whom 
of  late  years  the  fashion  for  collecting  has  brought 
there — all  that  immense  crowd  of  bric-a-brac  buyers, 
art  worshippers,  amateurs  of  repute,  and  nearly  all  the 
idlers  of  Paris.  It  had  been  found  necessary  to  hang 
the  three  or  four  valuable  pictures  for  sale  in  the 
hall  out  of  reach  of  the  crowd.  In  the  room  one 
could  hear  that  muffled  sound  which  one  always 
hears  at  wealthy  peoples'  sales,  the  murmur  of  prices 
going  up,  of  whims  and  fancies,  of  follies  which  lead 
on  to  further  follies,  of  competitions  between  bank- 
ers, and  of  all  kinds  of  vanities  connected  with  money 
matters.  Bidding,  too,  could  be  heard,  being  quietly 
carried  on  among  the  groups.  "  The  foam  was  ris- 
ing," as  the  dealers  say. 

When  they  entered  the  room,  Mme.  Mauperin 
and  her  daughter  saw  Barousse,  arm-in-arm  with  a 
young  man  of  about  thirty  years  of  age.  The  young 
man  had  large,  soft  eyes,  which  would  have  been 
handsome  if  they  had  had  more  expression  in  them. 
His  figure,  which  was  slightly  corpulent,  was  a  little 
puffy,  and  this  gave  him  a  rather  common  appear- 
ance. 

"At  last,  ladies!"  said  Barousse,  addressing 
169 


Renee  Mauperin 


Mme.  Mauperin;  "allow  me  to  introduce  my 
young  friend,  M.  Lemeunier.  He  knows  the  col- 
lection thoroughly,  and  if  you  want  a  guide  he  will 
take  you  to  the  best  things.  I  must  ask  to  be  ex- 
cused, as  I  want  to  go  and  push  something  in  No.  3 
room." 

M.  Lemeunier  took  Mme.  Mauperin  and  her 
daughter  round  the  room,  stopping  at  the  canvases 
signed  by  the  most  celebrated  names.  He  merely 
explained  the  subjects  of  the  pictures,  and  did  not 
talk  art.  Renee  was  grateful  to  him  for  this  from 
the  bottom  of  her  heart,  without  knowing  why. 
When  they  had  seen  everything,  Mme.  Mauperin 
thanked  M.  Lemeunier,  and  they  bowed  and  parted 
company. 

Renee  wanted  to  see  one  of  the  side-rooms.  The 
first  thing  she  caught  sight  of  on  entering  was  M. 
Barousse's  back,  the  back  of  an  amateur  in  the  very 
height  of  the  excitement  of  the  sale.  He  was  seated 
on  the  nearest  chair  to  the  auctioneer,  next  to  a  pic- 
ture-dealing woman  wearing  a  cap.  He  was  nudg- 
ing her,  knocking  her  knee,  whispering  eagerly  his 
bid,  which  he  imagined  he  was  concealing  from  the 
auctioneer  and  his  clerk,  from  the  expert,  and  from 
all  the  room. 

"  There,  come,  you  have  seen  enough,"  said  Mme. 
Mauperin,  after  a  short  time.  "  It's  your  sister's  '  At 
Home  '  day,  and  it  is  not  too  late.  We  have  not  been 

170 


Renee  Mauperin 


once  this  year  to  it,  and  she  will  be  delighted  to 
see  us." 

Renee's  sister,  Mme.  Mauperin's  elder  daughter, 
Mme.  Davarande,  was  the  type  par  excellence  of  a  so- 
ciety woman.  Society  filled  her  whole  life  and  her 
brain.  As  a  child  she  had  dreamed  of  it;  from  the 
time  she  had  been  confirmed  she  had  longed  for  it. 
She  had  married  very  young,  and  had  accepted  the 
first  "  good-looking  and  suitable  "  man  who  had  been 
introduced  to  her,  without  any  hesitation  or  trouble 
and  entirely  of  her  own  accord.  It  was  not  M.  Dava- 
rande, but  a  position  she  had  married.  Marriage  for 
her  meant  a  carriage  and  servants  in  livery,  dia- 
monds, invitations,  acquaintances,  drives  in  the  Bois. 
She  had  all  that,  did  very  well  without  children,  loved 
dress,  and  was  happy.  To  go  to  three  balls  in  an 
evening,  to  leave  forty  cards  before  dinner,  to  run 
about  from  one  reception  to  another,  and  to  have 
her  own  "  At  Home  "  day — she  could  not  conceive  of 
any  happiness  beyond  this.  Devoting  herself  entirely 
to  society,  Mme.  Davarande  borrowed  everything 
from  it  herself,  its  ideas,  its  opinions,  its  way  of 
giving  charity,  its  stock  phrases  in  affairs  of  the 
heart,  and  its  sentiments.  She  had  the  same  opin- 
ions as  the  women  whose  hair  was  dressed  by  the 
famous  coiffeur,  Laure.  She  thought  exactly  what 
it  was  correct  to  think,  just  as  she  wore  exactly  what 
it  was  correct  to  wear.  Everything,  from  her  very 

171 


Renee  Mauperin 

gestures  to  the  furniture  in  her  drawing-room,  from 
the  game  she  played  to  the  alms  she  gave  away,  from 
the  newspaper  she  read  to  the  dish  she  ordered  from 
her  cook,  aimed  at  being  in  good  style — good  style 
being  her  law  and  her  religion.  She  followed  the 
fashion  of  the  moment  in  everything  and  every- 
where, even  to  the  theatre  of  the  Banff es  Parisiens. 
She  had,  when  driving  in  the  Bois,  been  told  the 
names  of  certain  women  of  doubtful  reputation,  and 
could  point  them  out  to  her  friends,  and  that  made 
an  effect.  She  spelt  her  name  with  a  small  "  d,"  an 
apostrophe,  and  a  capital  A,  and  this  converted  it 
into  d'Avarande.  Mme.  Davarande  was  pious.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  God  was  chic.  It  would  have 
seemed  almost  as  improper  to  her  to  have  no  parish 
as  to  have  no  gloves.  She  had  adopted  one  of  those 
churches  where  grand  marriages  are  celebrated,  where 
people  with  great  names  are  to  be  met,  where  the 
chairs  have  armorial  bearings,  where  the  beadle  glit- 
ters with  gold  lace,  where  the  incense  is  perfumed 
with  patchouli,  and  where  the  porch  after  high  mass  on 
Sundays  resembles  the  corridor  of  the  Opera  House 
when  a  great  artiste  has  been  singing. 

She  went  to  hear  all  the  preachers  that  people 
were  supposed  to  hear.  She  confessed  her  sins,  not 
in  the  confessional,  but  in  a  community.  The  name 
and  the  individuality  of  the  priest  played  an  important 
part  so  far  as  she  was  concerned  in  the  sacraments  of 

172 


Renee  Mauperin 


the  Church:  she  would  not  have  felt  that  she  was 
really  married  if  any  one  but  the  Abbe  Blampoix  had 
officiated  at  her  wedding,  and  she  would  not  have 
considered  a  baptism  valid  if  a  ten-pound  note  had 
not  been  sent  to  the  cure  inside  the  traditional  box 
of  sugar-plums.  This  woman,  whose  mind  was  always 
fixed  on  worldly  things,  even  when  at  church  and 
during  the  benediction,  was  naturally,  thoroughly, 
and  absolutely  virtuous,  but  her  virtue  was  not  the 
result  of  any  effort,  merit,  or  even  consciousness.  In 
the  midst  of  this  whirlwind,  this  artificial  air  and  warm 
atmosphere,  exposed  to  all  the  opportunities  and 
temptations  of  society  life,  she  had  neither  the  heart 
which  a  woman  must  have  who  is  given  to  dreaming 
nor  enough  intelligence  to  be  bored  by  such  an  ex- 
istence. She  had  neither  the  curiosity  nor  the  incli- 
nation which  might  have  led  her  astray.  Hers  was 
one  of  those  happy,  narrow-minded  dispositions 
which  have  not  enough  in  them  to  go  wrong.  She 
had  that  unassailable  virtue,  common  to  many  Pa- 
risian women  who  are  not  even  touched  by  the  temp- 
tations which  pass  over  them:  she  was  virtuous 
just  in  the  same  way  as  marble  is  cold.  Physically, 
even,  as  it  happens  sometimes  with  lymphatic  and 
delicate  natures,  the  effect  of  society  life  on  her  had 
been  to  free  her  from  all  other  desires  by  using  up 
her  strength,  her  nervous  activity,  and  the  movement 
of  the  little  blood  she  had  in  her  body,  in  the  rushing 

173 


Renee  Mauperin 


about  on  visits  and  shopping,  the  effort  of  making 
herself  agreeable,  the  fatigue  of  evening  parties,  re- 
sulting in  utter  weariness  at  night,  and  enervation 
the  next  day. 

There  are  society  women  in  Paris  who,  by  the 
amount  of  vitality  and  vigour  they  expend,  and  by  the 
intense  application  of  their  energy  and  grace,  remind 
one  of  circus-riders  and  tight-rope  dancers,  whose 
temperament  suffers  from  the  fatigue  of  their  ex- 
ercises. 

Mme.  Mauperin  and  her  daughter  met  Mme. 
Davarande  in  her  dining-room,  accompanying  a 
smooth-faced  gentleman  with  blue  spectacles  to  the 
door.  She  was  extremely  amiable  to  him,  and  when 
she  had  seen  him  out  she  returned  to  her  mother 
and  sister. 

"  Excuse  my  leaving  you,"  she  said,  as  she  kissed 
them,  "  but  it  was  M.  Lordonnot,  the  architect  of 
the  Sacred  Heart  Convent.  I  cultivate  him  for  the 
sake  of  my  collections.  Thanks  to  him  I  had  forty- 
eight  pounds  you  know  last  time.  That's  very  goo4: 
Mme.  de  Berthival  has  never  reached  thirty-two 
pounds.  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you;  it's  very  nice  of  you 
to  have  come.  We'll  go  into  the  other  room — there's 
no  one  here  to-day.  Mme.  de  Thesigny,  Mme.  de 
Champromard,  and  Mme.  de  Saint-Sauveur,  and  then 
two  young  men,  young  de  Lorsac — you  know  him  I 

174 


Renee  Mauperin 


think,  mamma,  and  his  friend  de  Maisoncelles?  Wait 
a  minute,"  she  said  to  Renee,  patting  her  hair  down 
a  little,  "  your  hair  looks  like  a  little  dog's,"  and  then 
advancing  and  opening  the  drawing-room  door,  she 
announced  her  mother  and  sister. 

Every  one  rose,  shook  hands,  or  bowed,  and  then 
sat  down  again  and  looked  at  each  other.  Mme. 
Davarande's  three  lady  friends  were  leaning  back  in 
their  easy  chairs  in  that  languid  attitude  due  to  cush- 
ioned seats.  They  looked  very  dainty  in  their  wide 
skirts,  their  lovely  hats,  and  gloves  about  large 
enough  for  the  hands  of  a  doll.  They  were  dressed 
perfectly,  their  gowns  had  evidently  been  cut  by  an 
artiste,  their  whole  toilette  with  the  hundred  little 
nothings  which  set  it  off,  their  graceful  attitudes,  their 
bearing,  their  gestures,  the  movement  of  their  bodies, 
the  frou-frou  of  their  silk  skirts — everything  was 
there  which  goes  to  make  the  charm  of  the  Parisian 
woman;  and,  although  they  were  not  beautiful,  they 
had  discovered  the  secret  of  appearing  almost  pretty, 
with  just  a  smile,  a  glance,  certain  little  details  and 
semblances,  flashes  of  wit,  animation,  and  a  smart 
look  generally. 

The  two  friends,  Lorsac  and  Maisoncelles,  in  the 
prime  of  their  twenty  years,  with  pink-and-white  com- 
plexions, brilliant  health,  beardless  faces  and  curled 
hair,  were  delighted  at  being  invited  to  a  young  mar- 
ried lady's  "  At  Home  "  day,  and  were  sitting  respect- 

175 


Renee  Mauperin 

fully  on  the  edge  of  their  chairs.  They  were  young 
men  who  had  been  very  well  brought  up.  They  had 
just  left  a  pension  kept  by  an  abbe  who  gave  little  par- 
ties every  evening,  at  which  his  sister  presided,  and 
which  finished  up  with  tea  handed  round  in  the  bil- 
liard-room. 

"  Henriette,"  said  Mme.  de  Thesigny  to  Mme. 
Davarande,  when  the  conversation  had  commenced 
again,  "  are  we  going  to  see  Mile,  de  Bussan's  wed- 
ding to-morrow?  I  hear  that  every  one  will  be  there. 
It's  made  such  a  stir,  this  marriage." 

"  Will  you  call  for  me,  then?  What's  the  bride- 
groom like — does  any  one  know?  Do  you  know  him, 
Mme.  de  Saint-Sauveur?  " 

"  No,  not  at  all." 

"  Is  she  making  a  good  match?  " 

"An  awful  match!"  put  in  Mme.  de  Champro- 
mard,  "  he  hasn't  anything — six  hundred  pounds  a 
year  all  told." 

"  But,"  said  Mme.  Mauperin,  "  it  seems  to  me, 
madame,  that  six  hundred " 

"  Oh,  madame,"  continued  Mme.  de  Champro- 
mard,  "  why,  nowadays,  that  isn't  enough  to  pay  for 
having  one's  jewellery  reset." 

"  M.  de  Lorsac,  are  you  coming  to  this  wed- 
ding? "  asked  Mme.  Davarande. 

"  I  will  come  if  you  wish  iK" 

"  Well  then,  I  do  wish  it.  Will  you  keep  two 
176 


Renee  Mauperin 


chairs  for  us?  One  spoils  one's  dress  quite  enough 
without  that.  I  can  wear  pearl  grey,  can't  I?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  answered  Mme.  de  Thesigny, 
"  it's  a  moire  antique  wedding.  M.  de  Maisoncelles, 
will  you  keep  two  chairs  for  me?  Don't  forget." 

De  Maisoncelles  bowed. 

"  And  if  you  are  very  good  you  shall  be  my  cotil- 
lon partner  on  Wednesday." 

De  Lorsac  blushed  for  de  Maisoncelles. 

"  You  don't  go  out  much,  do  you,  mademoiselle?  " 
said  Mme.  de  Sauveur  to  Renee,  who  was  seated 
next  her. 

"  No,  madame,  I  don't  care  about  going  out," 
answered  Mile.  Mauperin  rather  curtly. 

"  Julia,"  said  Mme.  de  Thesigny  to  Mme.  de 
Champromard,  "  tell  us  again  about  your  famous 
bride's  bed-room — Mme.  Davarande  wasn't  there. 
Just  listen,  my  dear." 

"  Oh,  it  was  my  sewing-woman  who  told  me. 
Only  fancy,  the  walls  are  draped  with  white  satin, 
finished  with  applications  of  lace,  and  ruches  of  sat- 
in to  outline  the  panels.  The  sheets — I've  seen 
the  pattern  —  they  are  of  cambric  —  spider-web. 
The  mattresses  are  of  white  satin,  caught  down 
with  knots  of  pale  blue  silk  that  show  through 
the  sheet.  And  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that 
all  that  is  for  a  woman  who  is  quite  comme  U 
faut." 

*a  177 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mme.  de  Saint-Sauveur,  "  that  is 
most  astonishing,  for  everything,  nowadays,  is  for  the 
other  kind  of  women.  What  do  you  think  happened 
to  me  in  the  country — a  most  disagreeable  affair! 
There  is  a  woman,  who  is  not  all  she  ought  to  be, 
living  near  us.  We  came  across  her  at  church,  for 
she  has  sittings  there — just  fancy!  Well,  ever  since 
she  has  arrived  in  our  part  of  the  world,  everything 
has  gone  up  in  price.  We  positively  cannot  get  a 
sewing-girl  now  in  the  house  for  less  than  seven- 
pence  halfpenny  an  hour.  Money  is  nothing  to 
creatures  of  that  kind,  of  course.  And  then  every 
one  adores  her — she  is  such  a  schemer.  She  goes 
to  see  the  peasants  when  they  are  ill,  she  finds  situ- 
ations for  their  children,  and  she  gives  them  money 
— a  sovereign  at  a  time.  Before  she  came  we 
used  to  be  able  to  do  things  for  the  poor  without 
much  expense,  but  that  isn't  possible  now.  It's  out- 
rageous! I  told  the  cure  so — it  really  is  quite  scan- 
dalous! And  we  owe  all  this  to  one  of  your 
relatives,  M.  de  Lorsac,  to  your  cousin,  M.  d'Oram- 
beau.  My  compliments  to  him  when  you  ^see 
him." 

The  two  young  men  threw  themselves  back  on 
their  chairs  and  laughed  heartily,  and  then  both  of 
them  instinctively  bit  their  canes  with  delight. 

"  Where  have  you  just  come  from?  "  Mme.  Dava- 
rande  asked  her  mother  and  sister. 

178 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  From  the  auction-room,"  answered  Mme.  Mau- 
perin. "  M.  Barousse  persuaded  us  to  go  to  an  ex- 
hibition of  pictures." 

"  Lord  Mansbury's  collection,"  put  in  Renee. 

"  Ah,  we  must  go  to  those  auction-rooms,  Hen- 
riette,"  said  Mme.  de  Thesigny ;  "  we'll  go  and  rococo- 
ter — it's  great  fun." 

"  Have  you  seen  Petrucci's  pictures,  my  dear?  " 
asked  Mme.  de  Saint-Sauveur. 

"  Is  she  selling  them? "  asked  Mme.  de  The- 
signy. 

"  I  did  so  want  to  go,"  said  Mme.  Davarande. 
"  If  I  had  only  known  that  you  were  going " 

"  We  were  all  there,"  interrupted  Mme.  de  Saint- 
Sauveur.  "  It  was  so  curious.  There  was  a  glass- 
case  of  jewellery,  a  necklace  of  black  pearls  among 
other  things — if  only  you  had  seen  it — three  rows. 
There  isn't  a  husband  in  the  world  who  could  give 
you  a  thing  like  that;  it  would  take  a  national  sub- 
scription." 

"  Shall  we  not  see  your  husband?"  asked  Mme. 
Mauperin,  turning  to  Mme.  Davarande. 

"  Oh,  he's  never  here  on  my  day — my  husband — 
thank  goodness!"  Mme.  Davarande  looked  round 
as  she  heard  some  one  coming  in  by  the  door  behind 
her  chair.  It  was  M.  Barousse,  followed  by  the 
young  man  who  had  been  with  him  at  the  auction- 
room. 

179 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Ah,  we  meet  again,"  he  said  to  Mme.  Mauperin, 
as  he  put  down  on  a  chair  the  little  portfolio  which 
never  left  him. 

Renee  smiled  and  the  chattering  began  again. 

"  Have  you  read  that  novel — that  novel?  " 

"  The  one  in  the  Constitutional?  " 

"  No." 

"  By — I  can't  think  of  the  name.  It's  called — 
wait  a  minute." 

"  Every  one's  talking  about  it." 

"  Do  read  it." 

"  My  husband  will  get  it  me  from  his  club." 

"  Is  that  play  amusing?  " 

"  I  only  like  dramas." 

"  Shall  we  go?  " 

"  Let's  take  a  box." 

"  Friday?  " 

"  No,  Saturday." 

"  Shall  we  go  to  supper  after?  " 

"  Yes— agreed." 

"  It's  at  the  Provenqaux" 

"  Will  your  husband  come?  " 

"  Oh,  he  does  \vhat  I  want  him  to  do,  always." 

They  were  all  talking  and  answering  each  other's 
questions  without  really  listening  to  anything,  as 
every  one  was  chattering  at  the  same  time.  Words, 
questions,  and  voices  were  all  mingled  together  in 
the  Babel:  it  was  like  the  chirping  of  so  many  birds 

1 80 


Renee  Mauperin 


in  a  cage.  The  door  opened,  and  a  tall,  thin  woman 
dressed  in  black,  entered. 

"  Don't  disturb  yourselves,  any  of  you;  I  have 
only  just  come  in  as  I  am  passing.  I  have  only  one 
minute." 

She  bowed  to  the  ladies  and  took  up  her  position 
in  front  of  the  chimney-piece,  with  her  elbow  on  the 
marble  and  her  hands  in  her  muff.  She  glanced  at 
herself  in  the  glass,  and  then,  lifting  her  dress  skirt, 
held  out  the  thin  sole  of  her  dainty  little  boot  to  the 
fire. 

"  Henriette,"  she  began,  "  I  have  come  to  ask 
you  a  favour — a  great  favour.  You  absolutely  must 
undertake  the  invitations  for  the  ball  that  the  Brod- 
mers  are  giving — you  know,  those  Americans,  who 
have  just  come;  they  have  a  flat  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix,  and  the  rent  is  sixteen  hundred  a  year." 

"  Oh,  the  Brodmers — yes,"  put  in  Mme.  de  The- 
signy. 

"  But,  my  dear,"  said  Mme.  Davarande,  "  it's  a 
very  delicate  matter — I  don't  know  them.  Have  you 
any  idea  what  these  people  are?  " 

"  Why,  they  are  Americans.  They've  made  their 
fortune  out  of  cotton,  candles,  indigo,  or  negroes — or 
— I  don't  know  what;  but  what  in  the  world  does  that 
matter  to  us?  Americans,  you  know,  are  accepted 
nowadays.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned — with  people 
who  give  balls,  there's  only  one  thing  I  care  about, 

181 


Renee  Mauperin 


and  that  is  that  they  shouldn't  belong  to  the  police 
and  should  give  good  suppers.  It's  all  superb  at 
their  house,  it  seems.  The  wife  is  astonishing.  She 
talks  the  French  of  the  backwoods;  and  people  say 
she  was  tattooed  when  she  was  a  child.  That's  why 
she  can't  wear  low  dresses.  It's  most  amusing, 
and  she  is  so  entertaining.  They  want  to  get  plenty 
of  people,  you  see.  You  will  do  it  for  me,  won't 
you?  I  can  assure  you  that  if  I  were  not  in  mourn- 
ing I  should  have  had  great  pleasure  in  putting  on 
the  invitation  cards,  *  With  the  Baronne  de  Lermont's 
compliments.'  And  then,  too,  they  are  people  who 
will  do  things  properly.  Oh,  as  to  that  I'm  con- 
vinced of  it.  They  are  sure  to  make  you  a  pres- 
ent  " 

"  Oh  no,  if  I  undertake  the  invitations  I  don't 
want  a  present  for  it." 

"  How  queer  you  are!  Why,  that  sort  of  thing's 
done  every  day — it's  the  custom.  It  would  be  like 
refusing  a  box  of  sweets  from  these  gentlemen  here 
on  New  Year's  day.  And  now  I  must  go.  I  shall 
bring  them  to  see  you  to-morrow — my  savages. 
Good-bye!  Oh  dear,  I'm  nearly  dead!  "  and  with 
these  words  she  disappeared. 

"  Is  it  really  true?  "  Renee  asked  her  sister. 

"What?" 

"  That  guests  are  supplied  for  balls  in  this  way?  " 

"  Well,  didn't  you  know  that?  " 
182 


Renee  Mauperin 


'"  I  was  in  the  same  state  of  ignorance,"  said  the 
young  man  M.  Barousse  had  brought. 

"  It's  very  convenient  for  foreigners,"  remarked 
Mme.  Davarande. 

"  Yes,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  it's  rather  humili- 
ating for  Parisians.  Don't  you  think  so,  mademoi- 
selle? "  said  the  young  man,  turning  to  Mile.  Mau- 
perin. 

"  Oh,  it's  an  accepted  thing,  anyhow,"  said  Mme. 
Davarande. 


183 


XXIII 

MME.  BOURJOT  had  just  arrived  with  her  daughter 
at  the  Mauperins'.  She  kissed  Renee  and  sat  down 
by  Mme.  Mauperin  on  the  sofa  near  the  fire. 

"  My  dears,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  two  girls, 
who  were  chattering  together  on  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  "  suppose  you  were  to  let  your  mothers 
have  a  little  talk  together.  Will  you  take  Noemi  out 
in  the  garden  a  little,  Renee?  I  give  her  over 
to  you." 

Renee  put  her  arm  round  Noemi  and  pulled  her 
along  with  her,  skipping  as  she  went.  In  the  hall 
she  caught  up  a  Pyrenees  hood  that  was  lying  on  a 
chair  and  threw  it  over  her  head,  put  on  some  little 
overshoes,  and  ran  out  into  the  garden,  rushing 
along  like  a  child,  and  keeping  her  arm  round  lier 
friend  all  the  time. 

"  There's  a  secret — a  secret.  Do  you  know  what 
the  secret  is? "  she  exclaimed,  stopping  suddenly 
short  and  quite  out  of  breath. 

Noemi  looked  at  her  with  her  large,  sad  eyes  and 
did  not  answer. 

184 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  You  silly  girl!  "  said  Renee,  kissing  her.  "  I've 
guessed  it — I  caught  a  few  words — mamma  lets  every- 
thing out.  It's  about  his  lordship,  my  brother.  There 
now!  " 

"  Let's  sit  down — shall  we?  I'm  so  tired."  And 
Noemi  took  her  seat  on  the  garden  bench,  just  where 
her  mother  had  sat  on  the  night  of  the  theatricals. 

"Why,  you  are  crying!  What's  the  matter?" 
exclaimed  Renee,  sitting  down  by  her.  Noemi  let 
her  head  fall  on  her  friend's  shoulder  and  burst  into 
tears,  that  were  quite  hot  as  they  fell  on  Renee's 
hand. 

"  What  is  it,  tell  me — answer  me — speak,  Noemi 
— come  now,  Noemi  dear!  " 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know! "  answered  Noemi,  in 
broken  words,  which  seemed  to  choke  her.  "  I  won't 
— no,  I  cannot  tell  you — if  only  you  knew.  Oh,  do 
help  me!  "  and  she  flung  her  arms  round  Renee  in  de- 
spair. "  I  love  you  dearly — you " 

"Come,  come,  Noemi;  I  don't  understand  any- 
thing. Is  it  this  marriage — is  it  my  brother?  You 
must  answer  me — come!  " 

"  Ah,  yes;  you  are  his  sister — I  had  forgotten 
that.  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I  could  die " 

"  Die,  but  why?  " 

"  Why?     Because  your  brother " 

She  stopped  short,  in  horror  at  the  thought  of 
uttering  the  words  she  was  just  going  to  say,  and 

185 


Renee  Mauperin 


then,  suddenly  finishing  her  sentence  in  a  murmur  in 
Renee's  ear,  she  hid  her  face  on  her  friend's  shoulder 
to  conceal  her  blushing  cheeks  and  the  shame  she  felt 
in  her  inmost  soul. 

"  My  brother!  You  say — no,  it's  a  lie!  "  ex- 
claimed Renee,  pushing  her  away  and  springing  up 
with  a  bound  in  front  of  her. 

"  Should  /  tell  a  lie  about  it?  "  and  Noemi  looked 
up  sadly  at  Renee,  who  read  the  truth  clearly  in 
her  eyes. 

Renee  folded  her  arms  and  gazed  at  her  friend. 
She  stood  there  a  few  minutes  deep  in  thought,  erect 
and  silent,  her  whole  attitude  resolute  and  energetic. 
She  felt  within  herself  the  strength  of  a  woman,  and 
something  of  the  responsibility  of  a  mother  with 
this  child. 

"  But  how  can  your  father — "  she  began,  "  my 
brother  has  no  name  but  ours." 

"  He  is  to  take  another  one." 

"  Ah,  he  is  going  to  give  our  name  up?  And 
quite  right  that  he  should!  " 


186 


XXIV 

"On,  it's  you,  is  it;  you  are  not  in  bed  yet?" 
said  Henri  to  Renee,  as  she  went  into  his  room  one 
evening.  He  was  smoking,  and  it  was  that  blissful 
moment  in  a  man's  life  when,  with  slippers  on  and 
his  feet  on  the  marble  of  the  chimney-piece,  buried 
in  an  arm-chair,  he  gives  himself  up  to  day-dreams, 
while  puffing  up  languidly  to  the  ceiling  the  smoke  of 
his  last  cigar.  He  was  thinking  of  all  that  had  hap- 
pened during  the  past  few  months,  and  congratulating 
himself  on  having  manoeuvred  so  well.  He  was  turn- 
ing everything  over  in  his  mind:  that  suggestion  about 
the  theatricals,  which  he  had  thrown  out  with  such 
apparent  indifference  when  they  were  all  sitting  in 
the  garden;  then  his  absence  from  the  first  rehearsals, 
and  the  coolness  with  which  he  had  treated  Noemi 
in  order  to  reassure  her,  to  take  her  off  her  guard,  and 
to  prevent  her  refusing  point-blank  to  act.  He  was 
thinking  of  that  master-stroke,  of  his  love  suddenly 
rousing  the  mother's  jealousy  in  the  midst  of  the 
play,  and  it  had  all  appeared  to  be  so  spontaneous,  as 
though  the  role  he  was  filling  had  torn  from  him 

187 


Renee  Mauperin 


the  secret  of  his  soul.  He  thought  of  all  that  had 
followed:  how  he  had  worked  that  other  love  up  to 
the  last  extremity  of  despair,  then  his  behaviour  in 
that  last  interview;  all  this  came  back  to  him,  and 
he  felt  a  certain  pride  in  recalling  so  many  circum- 
stances that  he  had  foreseen,  planned,  and  arranged 
beforehand,  and  which  he  had  so  skilfully  intro- 
duced into  the  midst  of  the  love-affairs  of  a  woman 
of  forty. 

"  No,  I  am  not  sleepy  to-night,"  said  Renee, 
drawing  up  a  little  stool  to  the  fire  and  sitting 
down.  "  I  feel  inclined  for  a  little  chat  like  we  used 
to  have  before  you  had  your  flat  in  Paris,  do  you 
remember?  I  got  used  to  cigars,  and  pipes,  and 
everything  here.  Didn't  we  gossip  when  every  one 
had  gone  to  bed!  What  nonsense  we  have  talked  by 
this  fire!  And  now,  my  respected  brother  is  such  a 
very  serious  sort  of  man." 

"  Very  serious  indeed,"  put  in  Henri,  smiling. 
"  I'm  going  to  be  married." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  but  you  are  not  married  yet. 
Oh,  please  Henri!"  and  throwing  herself  on  her  knees 
she  took  his  hands  in  hers.  "  Come  now,  for  my 
sake.  Oh,  you  won't  do  it — just  for  money — I'm 
begging  you  on  my  knees!  And  then,  too,  it  will 
bring  bad  luck  to  give  up  your  father's  name.  It 
has  belonged  to  our  family  for  generations — this 
name,  Henri.  Think  what  a  man  father  is.  Oh,  do 

1 88 


Renee  Mauperin 


give  up  this  marriage — I  beseech  you — if  you  love 
me — if  you  love  us  all!  Oh,  I  beseech  you,  Henri!  " 

"What's  this  all  mean;  have  you  gone  mad? 
What  are  you  making  such  a  scene  about?  Come, 
that's  enough,  thank  you;  get  up." 

Renee  rose  to  her  feet,  and  looking  straight  into 
her  brother's  eyes  she  said: 

"  Noemi  has  told  me  everything!  " 

The  colour  had  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  Henri 
was  as  pale  as  if  some"  one  had  just  spat  in  his  face. 

"  You  cannot,  anyhow,  marry  her  daughter! " 
exclaimed  Renee. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  answered  Henri  coldly,  in  a  voice 
that  trembled,  "  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  inter- 
fering in  things  that  don't  concern  you.  And  you 
will  allow  me  to  say  that  for  a  young  girl " 

"  Ah,  you  mean  this  is  dirt  that  I  ought  to  know 
nothing  of;  that  is  quite  true,  and  I  should  never 
have  known  of  it  but  for  you." 

"  Renee!  "  Henri  approached  his  sister.  He  was 
in  one  of  those  white  rages  which  are  terrible  to 
witness,  and  Renee  was  alarmed  and  stepped  back. 
He  took  her  by  the  arm  and  pointed  to  the  door. 
"  Go!  "  he  said,  and  a  moment  later  he  saw  her  in 
the  corridor,  putting  her  hand  against  the  wall  for 
support. 


189 


XXV 

"  Go  up,  Henri,"  said  M.  Mauperin  to  his  son, 
and  then  as  Henri  wanted  his  father  to  pass  first  M. 
Mauperin  repeated,  "  No,  go  on  up." 

Half  an  hour  later  father  and  son  were  coming 
downstairs  again  from  the  office  of  the  Keeper  of 
the  Seals. 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  me,  Henri," 
observed  M.  Mauperin,  whose  face  was  very  red. 
"  I  have  done  as  you  and  your  mother  wished.  You 
will  have  this  name." 

«  Father " 

"  All  right,  don't  let  us  talk  about  it.  Are  you 
coming  home  with  me? "  he  asked,  buttoning  his 
frock-coat  with  that  military  gesture  with  which  old 
soldiers  gird  up  their  emotions. 

"  No,  father,  I  must  ask  you  to  let  me  leave  you 
now.  I  have  so  many  things  to  do  to-day.  I'll  come 
to  dinner  to-morrow." 

"  Good-bye,  then,  till  to-morrow.  You'd  better 
come;  your  sister  is  not  well." 

When  the  carriage  had  driven  away  with  his  father 
190 


Renee  Mauperin 

Henri  drew  himself  up,  looked  at  his  watch,  and  with 
the  brisk,  easy  step  of  a  man  who  feels  the  wind  of 
fortune  behind  him  blowing  him  along,  walked 
briskly  towards  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 

At  the  corner  of  the  Chaussee  d'Antin  he  went 
into  the  Cafe  Bignon,  where  some  heavy-looking 
young  men,  suggestive  of  money  and  the  provinces, 
were  waiting  for  him.  During  luncheon  the  conversa- 
tion turned  on  provincial  cattle  shows  and  competi- 
tions, and  afterward,  while  smoking  their  cigars  on  the 
boulevards,  the  questions  of  the  varied  succession  of 
crops,  of  drainage,  and  of  liming  were  brought  up, 
and  there  was  a  discussion  on  elections,  the  opinions 
of  the  various  departments,  and  on  the  candidatures 
which  had  been  planned,  thought  of,  or  attempted  at 
the  agricultural  meetings. 

At  two  o'clock  Henri  left  these  gentlemen,  after 
promising  one  of  them  an  article  on  his  model  farm; 
he  then  went  into  his  club,  looked  at  the  papers,  and 
wrote  down  something  in  his  note-book  which  ap- 
peared to  give  him  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  get  to 
his  mind.  He  next  hurried  off  to  an  insurance  com- 
pany to  read  a  report,  as  he  had  managed  to  get  on 
to  the  committee,  thanks  to  the  commercial  fame  and 
high  repute  of  his  father.  At  four  o'clock  he  sprang 
into  a  carriage  and  paid  a  round  of  visits  to  ladies 
who  had  either  a  salon  or  any  influence  and  acquaint- 
ances at  the  service  of  a  man  with  a  career.  He  re- 


Renee  Mauperin 

membered,  too,  that  he  had  not  paid  his  subscription 
to  the  "  Society  for  the  Right  Employment  of  the 
Sabbath  among  the  Working  Classes,"  and  he  called 
and  paid  it. 

At  seven  o'clock,  with  cordial  phrases  on  the  tip 
of  his  tongue  and  ready  to  shake  hands  with  every 
one,  he  went  upstairs  at  Lemardelay's,  where  the 
"  Friendly  Association  "  of  his  old  college  friends  held 
its  annual  banquet.  At  dessert,  when  it  was  his  turn 
to  speak,  he  recited  the  speech  he  had  composed  at 
his  club,  talked  of  this  fraternal  love-feast,  of  coming 
back  to  his  family,  of  the  bonds  between  the  past 
and  the  future,  of  help  to  old  comrades  who  had  been 
afflicted  with  undeserved  misfortunes,  etc. 

There  were  bursts  of  applause,  but  the  orator  had 
already  gone.  He  put  in  an  appearance  at  the 
d'Aguesseau  lecture,  left  there,  pulled  a  white  neck- 
tie out  of  his  pocket,  put  it  on  in  the  carriage,  and 
showed  up  at  three  or  four  society  gatherings. 


192 


XXVI 

THE  shock  which  Renee  had  had  on  leaving  her 
brother's  room,  and  which  had  made  her  totter  for 
a  moment,  had  brought  on  palpitation  of  the  heart, 
and  for  a  week  afterward  she  had  not  been  well.  She 
had  been  kept  quiet  and  had  taken  medicines,  but 
she  did  not  recover  her  gaiety,  and  time  did  not  ap- 
pear to  bring  it  back  to  her.  On  seeing  her  ill, 
Henri  knew  very  well  what  was  the  matter,  and  he 
had  done  all  in  his  power  to  make  things  up  with 
her  again.  He  had  been  most  affectionate,  atten- 
tive, and  considerate,  and  had  endeavoured  to  show 
his  repentance.  He  had  tried  to  get  int©  her  good 
graces  once  more,  to  appease  her  conscience,  and 
to  calm  her  indignation;  but  his  efforts  were  all  in 
vain.  He  was  always  conscious  of  a  certain  coolness 
in  her  manner,  of  a  repugnance  for  him,  and  of  a 
sort  of  quiet  resolution  which  caused  him  a  vague 
dread.  He  understood  perfectly  well  that  she  had 
only  forgotten  the  insult  of  his  brutality;  she  had 
forgiven  her  brother,  but  she  had  not  forgiven  him 
as  a  man. 

'93  Vol.  is— H 


Renee  Mauperin 

Her  mother  had  arranged  to  take  her  to  Paris  one 
day  for  a  little  change,  and  at  the  last  moment  had  not 
felt  well  enough  to  go.  Henri  had  some  business  to 
do,  and  he  offered  to  accompany  his  sister.  They 
started,  and  on  reaching  Paris  drove  to  the  Rue  Riche- 
lieu. As  they  were  passing  the  library  Henri  told  the 
cabman  to  draw  up. 

"  Will  you  wait  here  for  me  a  moment?  "  he  said 
to  his  sister,  "  I  want  to  ask  one  of  the  librarians  a 
question.  Why  not  come  in  with  me,  though,"  he 
added  as  an  after-thought.  "  You  have  always 
wanted  to  see  the  manuscript  scroll-work  and  that  is 
in  the  same  room.  You  would  find  it  interesting,  and 
I  could  get  my  information  at  the  same  time." 

Renee  went  up  with  her  brother  to  the  manu- 
script-room, and  Henri  took  her  to  the  end  of  a 
table,  waited  until  the  prayer-book  he  had  asked  for 
was  brought,  and  then  went  to  speak  to  a  librarian 
in  one  of  the  window  recesses. 

Renee  turned  over  the  leaves  of  her  book  slowly. 
Just  behind  her  one  of  the  employees  was  warming 
himself  at  the  hot-air  grating.  Presently  he  was 
joined  by  another,  who  had  just  taken  some  volumes 
and  some  title-deeds  to  the  desk  near  which  Henri 
was  talking,  and  Renee  heard  the  following  conversa- 
tion just  behind  her: 

"  I  say,  Chamerot,  you  see  that  little  chap?  " 

"  Yes.  at  M.  Reisard's  desk." 
194 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Well,  he  can  flatter  himself  that  he's  got  hold 
of  some  information  which  isn't  quite  correct.  He's 
come  to  ask  whether  there  used  to  be  a  family  named 
Villacourt,  and  whether  the  name  has  died  out. 
They've  told  him  that  it  has.  Now  if  he'd  asked  me, 
I  could  have  told  him  that  some  folks  of  that  name 
must  be  living.  I  don't  know  whether  it's  the  same 
family;  but  there  was  one  of  them  there  before  I  left 
that  part  of  the  world,  and  a  strong,  healthy  fellow 
too — the  eldest,  M.  Boisjorand — the  proof  is  that  we 
had  a  fight  once,  and  that  he  knew  how  to  give  hard 
blows.  Their  place  was  quite  near  to  where  we  lived. 
One  of  the  turrets  of  their  house  could  be  seen 
above  Saint-Mihiel,  and  from  a  good  distance  too; 
but  it  didn't  belong  to  them  in  my  time.  They  were 
a  spendthrift  lot,  that  family.  Oh,  they  were  queer 
ones  for  nobility;  they  lived  with  the  charcoal-burners 
in  the  Croix-du-Soldat  woods,  at  Motte-Noire,  like 
regular  satyrs." 

Saint-Mihiel,  the  Croix-du-Soldat  woods,  and 
Motte-Noire — all  these  names  fixed  themselves  on 
Renee's  memory  and  haunted  her. 

"  There,  now  I  have  what  I  wanted,"  said  Henri, 
gaily,  when  he  came  back  to  her  to  take  her  away. 


195 


XXVII 

DENOISEL  had  left  Renee  at  her  piano,  and  had 
gone  out  into  the  garden.  As  he  came  back  towards 
the  house  he  was  surprised  to  hear  her  playing  some- 
thing that  was  not  the  piece  she  was  learning;  then 
all  at  once  the  music  broke  off  and  all  was  silent.  He 
went  to  the  drawing-room,  pushed  the  door  open, 
and  discovered  Renee  seated  on  the  music-stool,  her 
face  buried  in  her  hands,  weeping  bitterly. 

"  Renee,  good  heavens!  What  in  the  world  is  the 
matter?  " 

Two  or  three  sobs  prevented  Renee's  answering 
at  first,  and  then,  wiping  her  eyes  with  the  backs  of 
her  hands,  as  children  do,  she  said  in  a  voice  choked 
with  tears: 

"It's — it's — too  stupid.  It's  this  thing  of  Ctto- 
pin's,  for  his  funeral,  you  know — his  funeral  mass, 
that  he  composed.  Papa  always  tells  me  not  to  play 
it.  As  there  was  no  one  in  the  house  to-day — I 
thought  you  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden — oh, 
I  knew  very  well  what  would  happen,  but  I  wanted 
to  make  myself  cry  with  it,  and  you  see  it  has  an- 

196 


Renee  Mauperin 


swered  to  my  heart's  content.  Isn't  it  silly  of  me — 
and  for  me,  too,  when  I'm  naturally  so  fond  of  fun! " 

"  Don't  you  feel  well,  Renee?  Come,  tell  me; 
there's  something  the  matter.  You  wouldn't  cry 
like  that." 

"  No,  there's  nothing  the  matter,  I  assure  you. 
I'm  as  strong  as  a  horse;  there's  nothing  at  all  the 
matter,  really  and  truly.  If  there  were  anything  I 
should  tell  you,  shouldn't  I?  It  all  came  about 
through  that  dreadful,  stupid  music.  And  to-day,, 
too — to-day,  when  papa  has  promised  to  take  me  to 
see  The  Straw  Hat" 

A  faint  smile  lighted  up  her  wet  eyes  as  she  spoke, 
and  she  continued  in  the  same  strain: 

"Only  fancy,  The  Straw  Hat  — at  the  Palais 
Royal.  It  will  be  fun,  I'm  sure;  I  only  like  pieces 
of  that  kind.  As  for  the  others,  dramas  and  senti- 
mental things — well,  I  think  we  have  enough  to  stir 
us  up  with  our  own  affairs;  it  isn't  worth  while  going 
in  search  of  trouble.  Then,  too,  crying  with  other 
people;  why,  it's  like  weeping  into  some  one  else's 
handkerchief.  We  are  going  to  take  you  with  us, 
you  know — a  regular  bachelor's  outing  it's  to  be. 
Papa  said  we  should  dine  at  a  restaurant;  and  I  prom- 
ise you  that  I'll  be  as  nonsensical,  and  laugh  as  I  used 
to  when  I  was  a  little  girl — when  I  had  my  English 
governess — you  remember  her?  She  used  to  wear 
orange-coloured  ribbons,  and  drink  eau  de  Cologne 

197 


Renee  Mauperin 


that  she  kept  in  a  cupboard  until  it  got  in  her  head. 
She  was  a  nice  old  thing." 

And  as  she  uttered  these  words  her  fingers  flew 
over  the  keyboard,  and  she  attacked  an  arrangement 
with  variations  of  the  Carnival  of  Venice. 

"  You've  been  to  Venice,  haven't  you?  "  she  said 
suddenly,  stopping  short. 

"  Yes." 

"  Isn't  it  odd  that  there  should  be  a  spot  like 
that  on  earth,  that  I  don't  know  and  yet  that  attracts 
me  and  makes  me  dream  of  it?  For  some  people  it's 
one  place,  and  for  others  it's  another.  Now,  I've 
never  wanted  to  see  any  place  except  Venice.  I'm 
going  to  say  something  silly — Venice  seems  to  me 
like  a  city  where  all  the  musicians  should  be  buried." 

She  put  her  fingers  on  the  notes  again,  but  she 
only  skimmed  over  them  without  striking  them  at 
all,  as  if  she  were  just  caressing  the  silence  of  the 
piano.  Her  hands  then  fell  on  her  knees  again,  and 
in  a  pensive  manner,  giving  way  to  her  thoughts,  she 
half  turned  her  head  towards  Denoisel. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "  it  seems  as  though  there 
is  sadness  in  the  very  air.  I  don't  know  how  it  is, 
but  there  are  days  when  the  sun  is  shining,  when 
I  have  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  no  worry  and 
no  troubles  to  face;  and  yet  I  positively  want  to  be 
sad,  I  try  to  get  the  blues,  and  feel  as  though  I  must 
cry.  Many  a  time  I've  said  I  had  a  headache  and  gone 

198 


Renee  Mauperin 

to  bed,  just  simply  for  the  sake  of  having  a  good  cry, 
of  burying  my  face  in  the  pillow;  it  did  me  ever  so 
much  good.  And  at  such  times  I  haven't  the  energy 
to  fight  against  it  or  to  try  to  overcome  it.  It's  just 
the  same  when  I  am  going  off  in  a  faint ;  there's  a  cer- 
tain charm  in  feeling  all  my  courage  leaving  me " 

"  There,  there,  that's  enough,  Renee  dear!  I'll 
have  your  horse  saddled  and  we'll  go  for  a  ride." 

"  Ah,  that's  a  good  idea!  But  I  warn  you  I  shall 
go  like  the  wind,  to-day." 


199 


XXVIII 

"  WHAT  was  he  to  do?  poor  Montbreton  has  four 
children,  and  none  too  much  money,"  said  M.  Mau- 
perin  with  a  sigh,  as  he  folded  up  the  newspaper  in 
which  he  had  just  been  reading  the  official  appoint- 
ments and  put  it  at  some  distance  from  him  on  the 
table. 

"Yes,  people  always  say  that.  As  soon  as  any 
one  ever  does  anything  mean,  people  always  say  '  He 
has  children.'  One  would  think  that  in  society  people 
only  had  children  for  the  sake  of  that — for  the  sake 
of  being  able  to  beg,  and  to  do  a  lot  of  mean  things. 
It's  just  as  though  the  fact  of  being  the  father  of  a 
family  gave  you  the  right  to  be  a  scoundrel." 

"  Come,  come,  Renee,"  M.  Mauperin  began. 

"  No,  it's  quite  true.  I  only  know  two  kinds  of 
people:  the  straightforward,  honest  ones;  and  tlien 
the  others.  Four  children!  But  that  only  ought  to 
serve  as  an  excuse  for  a  father  when  he  steals  a  loaf. 
Mere  Gigogne  would  have  had  the  right  to  poison  hers 
according  to  that,  then.  I'm  sure  Denoisel  thinks  as 
I  do." 

200 


Renee  Mauperin 


"I?  Not  at  all;  indeed  I  don't!  I  vote  for  in- 
dulgence in  favour  of  married  folks — fathers  of  fami- 
lies. I  should  like  to  see  people  more  charitable, 
too,  towards  any  one  who  has  a  vice — a  vice  which 
may  be  rather  ruinous,  but  which  one  cannot  give  up. 
As  to  the  others,  those  who  have  nothing  to  use  their 
money  for,  no  vice,  no  wife,  no  children,  and  who 
sell  themselves,  ruin  themselves,  bow  down,  humili- 
ate, enrich,  and  degrade  themselves — ah!  I'd  give 
all  such  over  to  you  willingly." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Renee  in  a 
piqued  tone.  "  Anyhow,  papa,"  she  went  on,  "  I  can- 
not understand  how  it  is  that  it  does  not  make  you 
indignant,  you  who  have  always  sacrificed  everything 
to  your  opinions.  It's  disgusting  what  he  has  done, 
and  that's  the  long  and  short  of  it." 

"  I  do  not  say  that  it  isn't;  but  you  get  so  ex- 
cited, child,  you  get  so  excited." 

"  I  should  think  so.  Yes,  I  do  get  excited — and 
enough  to  make  me,  too.  Only  fancy,  a  man  who 
owed  everything  to  the  other  government,  and  who 
said  everything  bad  he  could  about  the  present  one; 
and  now  he  joins  this  one.  Why,  he's  a  wretch! — 
your  friend,  Montbreton — a  wretch!  " 

"  Ah !  my  dear  child,  it's  very  easy  to  say  that. 
When  you  have  had  a  little  more  experience  of  life 
you  will  be  more  indulgent.  One  has  to  be  more 
merciful.  You  are  young." 

20 1 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  No,  it's  something  I've  inherited,  this  is.  I'm 
your  daughter,  and  there's  too  much  of  you  in  me, 
that's  what  it  is.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  swallow 
things  that  disgust  me.  It's  the  way  I'm  made — 
how  can  I  help  it?  Every  time  I  see  any  one  I  know 
— or  even  any  one  I  don't  know — fail  in  what  you  men 
call  points  of  honour,  well,  I  can't  help  it  at  all,  but 
it  has  the  same  effect  on  me  as  the  sight  of  a  toad.  I 
have  such  a  horror  of  it,  and  it  disgusts  me  so,  that  I 
want  to  step  on  it.  Come  now,  do  you  call  a  man  hon- 
ourable because  he  takes  care  to  only  do  abominable 
things  for  which  he  can't  be  tried  in  the  law  courts? 
Do  you  call  a  man  honourable  when  he  has  done 
something  for  which  he  must  blush  when  he  is  alone? 
Is  a  man  honourable  when  he  has  done  things  for 
which  no  one  can  reproach  him  and  for  which  he 
cannot  be  punished,  but  which  tarnish  his  conscience? 
I  think  there  are  things  that  are  lower  and  viler  than 
cheating  at  the  card-table;  and  the  indulgence  with 
which  society  looks  on  makes  me  feel  as  though  soci- 
ety is  an  accomplice,  and  I  think  it  is  perfectly  revolt- 
ing. There  are  things  that  are  so  disloyal,  so  dishon- 
est, that  when  I  think  of  them  it  makes  me  quite  mer- 
ciful towards  out-and-out  scoundrels.  You  see  they 
do  risk  something;  their  life  is  at  stake  and  their  lib- 
erty. They  go  in  for  things  prepared  to  win  or  lose: 
they  don't  put  gloves  on  to  do  their  infamous  deeds. 
I  like  that  better;  it's  not  so  cowardly,  anyhow!" 

202 


Renee  Mauperin 


Renee  was  seated  on  a  sofa  at  the  far  side  of  the 
drawing-room.  Her  arms  were  folded,  her  hands 
feverish,  and  her  whole  body  quivering  with  emotion. 
She  spoke  in  jerks,  and  her  voice  vibrated  with  the 
wrath  she  felt  in  her  very  soul.  Her  eyes  looked 
like  fire  lighting  up  her  face,  which  was  in  the 
shade. 

"  And  very  interesting,  too,  he  is,"  she  continued, 
"  your  M.  de  Montbreton.  He  has  an  income  of  six 
hundred  or  six  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  If  he 
did  not  pay  quite  such  a  high  house-rent,  and  if  his 
daughters  had  not  always  had  their  dresses  made  by 
Mme.  Carpentier " 

"  Ah,  this  requires  consideration,"  put  in  Denoi- 
sel.  "  A  man  who  has  more  than  two  hundred  a 
year,  if  a  bachelor,  and  more  than  four  hundred  if 
married,  can  perfectly  well  remain  faithful  to  a  gov- 
ernment which  is  no  longer  in  power.  His  means 
allow  him  to  regret " 

"  And  he  will  expect  you  to  esteem  him,  to  shake 
hands  with  him,  and  raise  your  hat  to  him  as  usual," 
continued  Renee.  "No,  it  is  rather  too  much!  I 
hope  when  he  comes  here,  papa — well,  I  shall 
promptly  go  straight  out  of  the  room." 

"  Will  you  have  a  glass  of  water,  Renee?  "  asked 
M.  Mauperin,  smiling;  "  you  know  orators  always  do. 
You  were  really  fine  just  then.  Such  eloquence — it 
flowed  like  a  brook." 

203 


Renee  Mauperin 

"  Yes,  make  fun  of  me  by  all  means.  You  know 
I  get  carried  away,  as  you  tell  me.  And  your  Mont- 
breton — but  how  silly  I  am,  to  be  sure.  He  doesn't 
belong  to  us,  this  man,  does  he?  Oh,  if  it  were  one 
of  my  family  who  had  done  such  a  thing,  such  a 
dishonourable  thing,  such  a " 

She  stopped  short  for  a  second,  and  then  began 
again: 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  speaking  with  an  effort,  as 
though  the  tears  were  coming  into  her  eyes,  "  I  think 
I  could  never  love  him  again.  Yes,  it  seems  to  me 
as  though  my  heart  would  be  perfectly  hard  as  far 
as  he  was  concerned." 

"  Good!  this  is  quite  touching.  We  had  the 
young  orator  just  now,  and  at  present  it  is  the  lit- 
tle girl's  turn.  You'd  do  better  to  come  and  look 
at  this  caricature  album  that  Davarande  has  sent 
your  mother." 

"  Ah  yes,  let's  look  at  that,"  said  Renee,  going 
quickly  across  to  her  father  and  leaning  on  his 
shoulder  as  he  turned  over  the  leaves.  She  glanced 
at  two  or  three  pages  and  then  looked  away. 

"  There,  I've  had  enough  of  them,  thank  you. 
Goodness,  how  can  people  enjoy  making  things  ugly 
— uglier  than  nature?  What  a  queer  idea.  Now  in 
art,  in  books,  and  in  everything,  I'm  for  all  that  is 
beautiful,  and  not  for  what  is  ugly.  Then,  too,  I  don't 
think  caricatures  are  amusing.  It's  the  same  with 

204 


Renee  Mauperin 

hunchbacks — it  never  makes  me  laugh  to  see  a  hunch- 
back. Do  you  like  caricatures,  Denoisel?  " 

"  Do  I?  No,  they  make  me  want  to  howl.  Yes, 
it  is  a  kind  of  comical  thing  that  hurts  me,"  answered 
Denoisel,  picking  up  a  Review  that  was  next  the 
album.  "  Caricatures  are  like  petrified  jokes  to  me. 
I  can  never  see  one  on  a  table  without  thinking  of  a 
lot  of  dismal  things,  such  as  the  wit  of  the  Direc- 
tory, Carle  Vernet's  drawings,  and  the  gaiety  of  mid- 
dle-class society." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  M.  Mauperin  laughing,  "  and 
in  addition  to  that  you  are  cutting  my  Revue  des 
Deux1  Mondes  with  a  match.  How  hopeless  he  is, 
to  be  sure,  Denoisel."  , 

"  Do  you  want  a  knife,  Denoisel?  "  asked  Renee, 
plunging  her  hand  into  her  pockets  and  pulling  out 
a  whole  collection  of  things,  which  she  threw  on  the 
table. 

"  By  Jove!  "  exclaimed  Denoisel,  "  why,  you  have 
a  regular  museum  in  your  pockets.  You'd  have 
enough  for  a  whole  sale  at  the  auction-rooms.  What 
in  the  world  are  all  those  things?  " 

"  Presents  from  a  certain  person,  and  they  go 
about  with  me  everywhere.  There's  the  knife  for 
you,"  and  Renee  showed  it  to  her  father  before  pass- 
ing it  to  Denoisel.  "  Do  you  remember  where  you 
bought  it  for  me?  "  she  asked.  "  It  was  at  Langres 
once  when  we  had  stopped  for  a  fresh  horse;  oh,  it's 

205 


Renee  Mauperin 


a  very  old  one.  This  one,"  she  continued,  picking 
up  another,  "  you  brought  me  from  Nogent.  It  has 
a  silver  blade,  if  you  please;  I  gave  you  a  halfpenny 
for  it,  do  you  remember?  " 

"  Ah,  if  we  are  to  begin  making  inventories!  "  said 
M.  Mauperin  laughing. 

"  And  what's  in  that?  "  asked  Denoisel,  pointing 
to  a  little  worn-out  pocket-book  stuffed  full  of  papers, 
the  dirty  crumpled  edges  of  which  could  be  seen  at 
each  end. 

"  That?  Oh,  those  are  my  secrets,"  and,  picking 
up  all  the  things  she  had  thrown  on  the  table,  she 
put  them  quickly  back  in  her  pocket  with  the  little 
book.  The  next  minute,  with  a  burst  of  laughter 
and  diving  once  more  into  her  pockets,  she  pulled 
the  book  out  again,  opened  the  flap,  and  scattered 
all  the  little  papers  on  the  table  in  front  of  Denoisel, 
and  without  opening  them  proceeded  to  explain  what 
they  were.  "  There,  this  is  a  prescription  that  was 
given  for  papa  when  he  was  ill.  That's  a  song  he 
composed  for  me  two  years  ago  for  my  birthday " 

"  There,  that's  enough!  Pack  up  your  relics;  put 
all  that  out  of  sight,"  said  M.  Mauperin,  sweeping 
all  the  little  papers  from  him  just  as  the  door  opened 
and  M.  Dardouillet  entered. 

"Oh,  you've  mixed  them  all  up  for  me!"  ex- 
claimed Renee,  looking  annoyed  as  she  put  them  back 
in  her  pocket-book. 

206 


XXIX 

A  MONTH  later,  in  the  little  studio,  Renee  said 
to  Denoisel:  "Am  I  really  romantic — do  you  think 
I  am?  " 

"  Romantic — romantic?  In  the  first  place,  what 
do  you  mean  by  romantic?  " 

"Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean;  having  ideas  that 
are  not  like  every  one  else's,  and  fancying  a  lot  of 
things  that  can  never  happen.  For  instance,  a  girl 
is  romantic  when  it  would  be  a  great  trouble  to  her 
to  marry,  as  girls  do  marry,  a  man  with  nothing  ex- 
traordinary about  him,  who  is  introduced  to  her  by 
papa  and  mamma,  and  who  has  not  even  so  much 
as  saved  her  life  by  stopping  a  horse  that  has  taken 
fright,  or  by  dragging  her  out  of  the  water.  You 
don't  imagine  I'm  one  of  that  sort,  I  hope?  " 

"  No;  at  least  I  don't  know  at  all.  I'd  wager  that 
you  yourself  don't  know,  either." 

"  Nonsense.  It  may  be,  in  the  first  place,  be- 
cause I  have  no  imagination;  but  it  has  always  seemed 
to  me  so  odd  to  have  an  ideal — to  dream  about  some 
imaginary  man.  It's  just  the  same  with  the  heroes 

207 


Renee  Mauperin 


in  novels;  they've  never  turned  my  head.  I  always 
think  they  are  too  well-bred,  too  handsome,  too 
rotten,  with  all  their  accomplishments.  I  get  so  sick 
of  them  in  the  end.  But  it  isn't  that.  Tell  me  now, 
suppose  they  wanted  to  make  you  live  your  whole 

life  long  with  a  creature — a  creature  who " 

"  A  creature — what  sort  of  a  creature?  " 
"  Let  me  finish  what  I  am  saying.  A  man,  then, 
who  did  not  answer  at  all  to  certain  delicate  little 
requirements  of  your  nature,  who  did  not  strike  you 
as  being  poetical — there,  that's  what  I  mean — not  a 
scrap  poetical,  but  who  on  the  other  hand  made  up 
for  what  was  wanting  in  him,  in  other  ways,  by  such 
kindness — well,  such  kindness  as  one  never  meets 

with " 

"  As  much  kindness  as  all  that?  Oh,  I  should  not 
hesitate;  I  should  take  the  kindness  blindfold.  Dear 
me,  yes,  indeed  I  should.  It's  so  rare." 

"  You  think  kindness  worth  a  great  deal  then?  " 
"  I  do,  Renee.     I  value  it  as  one  values  what  one 
has  lost." 

"  You?  Why,  you  are  always  very  kind." 
"  I  am  not  downright  bad;  but  that's  all.  I  might 
perhaps  be  envious  if  I  had  more  modesty  and  less 
pride.  But  as  for  always  being  kind,  oh  no,  I  am  not. 
Life  cures  you  of  that  just  as  it  cures  you  of  being 
a  child.  One  gets  over  one's  good-nature,  Renee, 
just  as  one  gets  over  teething." 

208 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Then  you  think  that  a  kindly  disposition  and  a 
good  heart " 

'  Yes,  I  mean  the  goodness  that  endures  in  spite 
of  men  and  in  spite  of  experience — such  goodness 
as  I  have  met  with  in  a  primitive  state  in  two  or 
three  men  in  my  life.  I  look  upon  it  as  the  best  and 
most  divine  quality  a  man  can  have." 

"  Yes,  but  if  a  man  who  is  very  good,  as  good  as 
those  you  describe — this  is  just  a  supposition,  you 
know — suppose  he  had  feet  that  looked  like  lumps 
of  cake  in  his  boots.  And  then,  suppose  he  were 
corpulent,  tkis  good  man,  this  very  good  man?  " 

"  Well,  one  need  not  look  at  his  feet  nor  at  his 
corpulency — that's  all.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
though,  of  course,  I  had  completely  forgotten." 

"  What?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing;  except  that  you  are  a  woman." 

"  But  that's  very  insulting  to  my  sex — that  re- 
mark of  yours." 

Denoisel  did  not  answer,  and  the  conversation 
ceased  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  Have  you  ever  wished  for  wealth? "  Renee 
began  again. 

"Yes,  several  times;  but  absolutely  for  the  sake 
of  treating  it  as  it  deserves  to  be  treated — to  be  dis- 
respectful to  it." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  I  should  like  to  be  rich  just  to  show 
«4  209 


Renee  Mauperin 


the  contempt  I  have  for  money.  I  remember  that 
two  or  three  times  I  have  fallen  asleep  with  the  idea 
of  going  to  Italy  to  get  married." 

"  To  Italy? " 

"  Yes,  there  are  more  Russian  princesses  there 
than  anywhere  else,  and  Russian  princesses  are  the 
only  women  left  in  this  world  who  will  marry  a 
man  without  a  farthing.  Then,  too,  I  was  prepared 
to  be  contented  with  a  princess  who  was  not  very 
well  off.  I  was  not  at  all  exacting,  and  would  have 
come  down  without  a  murmur  to  thirty  thousand 
pounds  a  year.  That  was  my  very  lowest  figure 
though." 

"Indeed!"  said  Renee  laughing.  "And  what 
should  you  have  done  with  all  that  money?  " 

"  I  should  just  have  poured  it  away  in  streams  be- 
tween my  fingers;  it  would  have  been  something  as- 
tounding to  see;  something  that  I  have  never  seen  rich 
people  do  with  their  money.  I  think  all  the  million- 
aires ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves.  For  in- 
stance, from  the  way  in  which  a  man  lives  who  has 
four  thousand  a  year,  and  the  way  a  man  lives  who 
has  forty  thousand,  could  you  tell  their  difference  of 
fortune?  Now  with  me  you  would  have  known. 
For  a  whole  year  I  should  have  flung  away  my  money 
in  all  kinds  of  caprices,  fancies,  and  follies;  I  should 
have  dazzled  and  fairly  humiliated  Paris;  I  should 
have  been  like  a  sun-god  showering  bank-notes  down; 

210 


Renee  Mauperin 


I  should  have  positively  degraded  my  gold  by  all 
kinds  of  prodigalities;  and  at  the  end  of  a  year,  day 
for  day,  I  should  have  left  my  wife." 

"Nonsense!" 

"  Certainly;  in  order  to  prove  to  myself  that  I  did 
not  love  money.  If  I  had  not  left  her,  I  should  have 
considered  myself  dishonoured." 

"  Well,  what  extraordinary  ideas!  I  must  confess 
that  I  haven't  arrived  at  your  philosophy  yet.  A 
large  fortune  and  all  that  it  gives  you,  all  kinds  of 
enjoyment  and  luxuries,  houses,  carriages,  and  then 
the  pleasure  of  making  the  people  you  don't  like  en- 
vious— of  annoying  them.  Oh,  I  think  it  would  be 
most  delightful  to  be  rich." 

"  I  told  you  just  now,  Renee,  that  you  were  a 
woman — merely  a  woman." 


211 


XXX 

DENOISEL  had  spoken  as  he  really  felt.  If  he 
had  sometimes  wished  for  wealth,  he  had  never  envied 
people  who  had  it.  He  had  a  sincere  and  thorough 
contempt  for  money — the  contempt  of  a  man  who  is 
rich  with  very  little. 

Denoisel  was  a  Parisian,  or  rather  he  was  the  true 
Parisian.  Well  up  in  all  the  experiences  of  Paris, 
wonderfully  skilled  in  the  great  art  of  living,  thanks 
to  the  habits  and  customs  of  Parisian  life,  he  was  the 
very  man  for  that  life;  he  had  all  its  instincts,  its 
sentiments,  and  its  genius.  He  represented  perfectly 
that  very  modern  personage,  the  civilized  man,  tri- 
umphing, day  by  day,  like  the  inhabitants  of  a  forest 
of  Bondy,  over  the  price  of  things,  over  the  costly 
life  of  capitals,  as  the  savage  triumphs  over  nature  in 
a  virgin  forest.  He  had  all  the  show  and  glitter  of 
wealth.  He  lived  among  rich  people,  frequented 
their  restaurants  and  clubs,  had  their  habits,  and 
shared  in  their  amusements.  He  knew  some  of  the 
wealthiest  people,  and  all  that  money  opened  to  them 
was  open  to  him.  He  was  seen  at  the  grand  private 

222 


Renee  Mauperin 

balls  of  the  Provengaux,  at  the  races,  and  at  first 
nights  at  the  theatres.  In  summer  he  went  to  the 
watering-places,  to  the  sea,  and  to  the  gambling  re- 
sorts. He  dressed  like  a  man  who  owns  a  carriage. 

And  yet  Denoisel  only  possessed  between  four 
and  five  thousand  pounds.  Belonging  to  a  family 
that  had  been  steeped  in  the  ideas  of  the  past  with 
regard  to  property,  attached  and  devoted  to  landed 
wealth,  always  talking  of  bankruptcy,  and  as  mis- 
trustful of  stocks  and  shares  as  peasants  formerly  were 
of  bank-notes,  Denoisel  had  shaken  himself  free  of  all 
the  prejudices  of  his  own  people.  Without  troubling 
about  the  advice,  the  remonstrances,  the  indignation, 
and  the  threats  of  old  and  distant  relatives,  he  had  sold 
the  small  farms  which  his  father  and  mother  had  left 
him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  no  longer  any 
proportion  between  the  revenue  of  land  and  the  ex- 
penses of  modern  life.  In  his  opinion  landed  es- 
tate might  have  been  a  means  of  wealth  at  the  time 
when  Paul  de  Kock's  novels  said  of  a  young  man, 
"  Paul  was  rich,  he  had  two  hundred  and  fifty  a  year." 
But  since  that  time  it  had,  according  to  him,  become 
an  anachronism,  a  kind  of  archaic  property,  a  fancy 
for  which  was  only  permissible  in  very  wealthy  people. 
He  therefore  realized  his  land  and  turned  it  into  a 
small  capital,  which  he  placed,  after  consulting  with  a 
friend  of  his  who  frequented  the  Stock  Exchange,  in 
foreign  bonds,  in  shares  and  securities,  thus  doubling 

213 


Renee  Mauperin 


and  tripling  his  revenue  without  any  risk  to  his  regu- 
lar income.  Having  thus  converted  his  capital  into  a 
figure  which  meant  nothing,  except  in  the  eyes  of 
a  notary,  and  which  no  longer  regulated  his  current 
means,  Denoisel  arranged  his  life  as  he  had  done  his 
money.  He  organized  his  expenses.  He  knew  ex- 
actly the  cost  in  Paris  of  vanity,  little  extras,  bargains, 
and  all  such  ruinous  things.  He  was  not  ashamed  to 
add  up  a  bill  himself  before  paying  it.  Away  from 
home  he  only  smoked  fourpenny  cigars,  but  at  home 
he  smoked  pipes.  He  knew  where  to  buy  things,  dis- 
covered the  new  shops,  which  give  such  good  value 
during  the  first  three  months.  He  knew  the  wine-cel- 
lars at  the  various  restaurants,  ordered  Chambertin  a 
certain  distance  up  the  boulevards,  and  only  ordered 
it  there.  If  he  gave  a  dinner,  his  menu  won  the  respect 
of  the  waiter.  And  with  all  that,  he  knew  how  to 
order  supper  for  four  shillings  at  the  Cafe  Anglais. 

All  his  expenses  were  regulated  with  the  same 
skill.  He  went  to  one  of  the  first  tailors  in  Paris, 
but  a  friend  of  his  who  was  in  the  Foreign  Office 
procured  for  him  from  London  all  the  suits  he  wanted 
between  the  seasons.  When  he  had  a  present  to 
make,  or  any  New  Year's  gifts  to  buy,  he  always  knew 
of  a  cargo  of  Indian  or  Chinese  things  that  had  just 
arrived,  or  he  remembered  an  old  piece  of  Saxony 
or  Sevres  china  that  was  lying  hidden  away  in  some 
shop  in  an  unfrequented  part  of  Paris,  one  of  those 

214 


Rcnee  Maupcrin 


old  curiosities,  the  price  of  which  cannot  be  discov- 
ered by  the  person  for  whom  it  is  destined.  All  this 
with  Denoisel  was  spontaneous,  natural,  and  instinc- 
tive. This  never-ending  victory  of  Parisian  intelli- 
gence over  all  the  extravagance  of  life  had  nothing 
of  the  meanness  and  pettiness  of  sordid  calculation 
about  it.  It  was  the  happy  discovery  of  a  scheme  of 
existence  under  satisfactory  conditions,  and  not  a 
series  of  vulgar  petty  economies,  and  in  the  well- 
organized  expenditure  of  his  six  hundred  pounds  a 
year  the  man  remained  liberal  and  high-minded:  he 
avoided  what  was  too  expensive  for  him,  and  never 
attempted  to  beat  prices  down.  Denoisel  had  a  flat 
of  his  own  on  the  first  storey  of  a  well-ordered  house 
with  a  carpeted  staircase.  He  had  only  three  rooms, 
but  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  was  at  his  very  door. 
His  little  drawing-room,  which  he  had  furnished  as 
a  smoking-den,  was  charming.  It  was  one  of  those 
snug  little  rooms  which  Parisian  upholsterers  are  so 
clever  in  arranging.  It  was  all  draped  and  furnished 
with  chintz,  and  had  divans  as  wide  as  beds.  It  had 
been  Denoisel's  own  wish  that  the  absence  of  all 
objects  of  art  should  complete  the  cheerful  look  of 
the  room.  He  was  waited  on  in  the  morning  by  his 
hall-porter,  who  brought  him  a  cup  of  chocolate  and 
did  all  the  necessary  housework.  He  dined  at  a  club 
or  restaurant  or  with  friends. 

The  low  rent  and  the  simplicity  of  his  household 
215 


Renee  Mauperin 


and  domestic  arrangements  left  Denoisel  more  of  that 
money  of  which  wealthy  people  are  so  often  short, 
that  money  for  the  little  luxuries  of  life,  which  is 
more  necessary  than  any  other  in  Paris,  and  which 
is  known  as  pocket-money.  Occasionally,  however, 
that  force  majeure,  the  Unforeseen,  would  suddenly 
arrive  in  the  midst  of  this  regular  existence  and  dis- 
arrange its  equilibrium  and  its  budget. 

Denoisel  would  then  disappear  from  Paris  for  a 
time.  He  would  ruralize  at  some  little  country  inn, 
near  a  river,  on  half-a-crown  a  day,  and  he  would 
spend  no  other  money  than  what  was  necessary  for 
tobacco.  Two  or  three  winters,  finding  himself  quite 
out  of  funds,  he  had  emigrated,  and,  on  discovering 
a  city  like  Florence,  where  happiness  costs  nothing 
and  where  the  living  is  almost  as  inexpensive  as  that 
happiness,  he  had  stayed  there  six  months,  lodging  in 
a  room  with  a  cupola,  dining  a  la  trattoria  on  truffles 
with  Parmesan  cheese,  passing  his  evenings  in  the 
boxes  of  society  people,  going  to  the  Grand  Duke's 
balls,  feted,  invited  everywhere,  with  white  camellias 
in  his  buttonhole — economizing  in  the  happiest  vway 
in  the  world. 

Denoisel  spent  no  more  for  his  love-affairs  than 
for  other  things.  It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  self- 
respect  with  him,  so  that  he  only  paid  what  he  thought 
them  worth.  And  yet  such  things  had  been  his  one 
allurement  as  a  young  man.  He  had,  however,  always 

216 


Renee  Mauperin 


been  cool  and  methodical,  even  in  his  love-affairs.  He 
had  wanted,  in  a  lordly  way,  to  test  for  himself  what 
the  love  of  the  woman  who  was  the  most  in  vogue 
in  Paris  was  like.  He  allowed  himself  for  this  ex- 
periment about  two  thousand  pounds  of  the  seven 
thousand  he  then  possessed,  and,  during  the  six 
months  that  he  was  the  accepted  lover  of  the  cele- 
brated Genicot,  a  woman  who  would  give  a  five- 
pound  note  as  a  tip  to  her  postillion  on  returning  from 
the  Marche,  he  lived  in  the  same  style  as  a  man  with 
five  thousand  a  year.  When  the  six  months  were 
over  he  left  her,  and  she,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
was  in  love  with  a  man  who  had  paid  for  that  love. 

Tempered  by  this  proof  he  had  had  several  other 
experiences  afterward,  until  they  had  palled  on  him; 
and  then  there  had  suddenly  come  to  him,  not  a 
desire  for  further  love  adventures,  but  a  great  curi- 
osity about  women.  He  set  out  to  discover  all  that 
was  unforeseen,  unexpected,  and  unknown  to  him  in 
woman.  All  actresses  seemed  to  him  very  much  the 
same  kind  of  courtesan,  and  all  courtesans  very  much 
the  same  kind  of  actress.  What  attracted  him  now 
was  the  unclassed  woman,  the  woman  that  bewilders 
the  observer  and  the  oldest  Parisian.  He  often  went 
wandering  about  at  night,  vaguely  and  irresistibly  led 
on  by  one  of  those  creatures  who  are  neither  all  vice 
nor  all  virtue,  and  who  walk  so  gracefully  along  in 
the  mire.  Sometimes  he  was  dazzled  by  one  of  those 

217 


Renee  Mauperin 


fine-looking  girls,  so  often  seen  in  Paris,  who  seem 
to  brighten  everything  as  they  pass  along,  and  he 
would  turn  round  to  look  at  her  and  stand  there  even 
after  she  had  suddenly  disappeared  in  the  darkness  of 
some  passage.  His  vocation  was  to  discover  tar- 
nished stars.  Now  and  then  in  some  faubourg  he 
would  come  across  one  of  these  marvellous  daughters 
of  the  people  and  of  Nature,  and  he  would  talk  to 
her,  watch  her,  listen  to  her,  and  study  her;  then 
when  she  wearied  him  he  would  let  her  go,  and  it 
would  amuse  him  later  on  to  raise  his  hat  to  her 
when  he  met  her  again  driving  in  a  carriage. 

Denoisel's  wealthy  air  won  for  him  a  welcome 
in  social  circles.  He  soon  established  himself  there 
and  on  a  superior  footing,  thanks  to  his  geniality  and 
wit,  the  services  of  every  kind  he  was  always  ready 
to  render,  and  the  need  every  one  had  of  him.  His 
large  circle  of  acquaintances  among  foreigners,  art- 
ists, and  theatrical  people,  his  knowledge  of  the  ins 
and  outs  of  things  when  small  favours  were  required, 
made  him  very  valuable  on  hundreds  of  occasions. 
Every  one  applied  to  him  for  a  box  at  a  theatre,  per-* 
mission  to  visit  a  prison  or  a  picture  gallery,  an 
entrance  for  a  lady  to  the  law  courts  at  some  trial, 
or  a  foreign  decoration  for  some  man.  In  two  or 
three  duels  in  which  he  had  served  as  seconds,  he 
had  shown  sound  sense,  decision,  and  a  manly  regard 
for  the  honour  as  well  as  the  life  of  the  man  for  whom 

218 


Renee  Mauperin 


he  was  answerable.  People  were  under  all  kinds  of 
obligations  to  him,  and  the  respect  they  had  for  him 
was  not  lessened  by  his  reputation  as  a  first-rate 
swordsman.  His  character  had  won  for  him  the 
esteem  of  all  with  whom  he  came  in  contact,  and  he 
was  even  held  in  high  consideration  by  wealthy 
people,  whose  millions,  nevertheless,  were  not  always 
respected  by  him. 


219 


XXXI 

"  MY  wife,  for  instance,  wanted  to  have  her  por- 
trait painted  by  Ingres.  You've  seen  it — it  isn't  like 
her — but  it's  by  Ingres.  Well,  do  you  know  what  he 
asked  me  for  it?  Four  hundred  pounds.  I  paid  it 
him,  but  I  consider  that  taking  advantage;  it's  the 
war  against  capital.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  be- 
cause a  man's  name  is  known  he  should  make  me 
pay  just  what  he  likes?  because  he's  an  artist,  he 
has  no  price,  no  fixed  rate,  he  has  a  right  to  fleece 
me?  Why,  according  to  that  he  might  ask  me  a 
million  for  it.  It's  like  the  doctors  who  make  you 
pay  according  to  your  fortune.  To  begin  with,  how 
does  any  one  know  what  I  have?  I  call  it  an  iniquity. 
Yes,  four  hundred  pounds;  what  do  you  think  of 
that?  " 

M.  Bourjot  was  standing  by  the  chimney-piece 
talking  to  Denoisel.  He  put  the  other  foot,  on  which 
he  had  been  standing,  to  the  fire  as  he  spoke. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  Denoisel,  very  seriously, 
"you  are  quite  right:  all  these  folks  take  advantage 
of  their  reputation.  You  see  there's  only  one  way 

220 


Renee  Mauperin 

to  prevent  it,  and  that  would  be  to  decree  a  legal 
maximum  for  talent,  a  maximum  for  master-pieces. 
Why,  yes!  It  would  be  very  easy." 

"  That's  it;  that  would  be  the  very  thing! "  ex- 
claimed M.  Bourjot,  "  and  it  would  be  quite  just, 
for  you  see " 

The  Bourjots  had  dined  that  evening  alone  with 
the  Mauperins.  The  two  families  had  been  talking 
of  the  wedding,  and  were  only  waiting-  to  fix  the  day, 
until  the  expiration  of  a  year  from  the  date  of  the 
first  insertion  of  the  name  of  Villacourt  in  the  Moni- 
tor. It  was  M.  Bourjot  who  had  insisted  on  this 
delay..  The  ladies  were  talking  about  the  trousseau, 
jewellery,  laces,  and  wedding-presents,  and  Mme. 
Mauperin,  who  was  seated  by  Mme.  Bourjot,  was 
contemplating  her  as  though  she  were  a  person  who 
had  performed  a  miracle. 

M.  Mauperin's  face  beamed  with  joy.  He  had  in 
the  end  yielded  to  the  fascination  of  money.  This 
great,  upright  man,  genuine,  severe,  rigid,  and  incor- 
ruptible as  he  was,  had  gradually  allowed  the  vast 
wealth  of  the  Bourjots  to  come  into  his  thoughts  and 
into  his  dreams,  to  appeal  to  him  and  to  his  instincts 
as  a  practical  man,  as  an  old  man,  the  father  of  a 
family  and  a  manufacturer.  He  had  been  won  over 
and  disarmed.  Ever  since  his  son's  success  with  re- 
gard to  this  marriage,  he  had  felt  that  respect  for 
Henri  which  ability  or  the  prospect  of  a  large  for- 

221 


Renee  Mauperin 

tune  inspires  in  people,  and,  without  being  aware  of 
it  himself,  he  scarcely  blamed  him  now  for  having 
changed  his  name.  Fathers  are  but  men,  after  all. 

Renee,  who  for  some  time  past  had  been  worried, 
thoughtful,  and  low-spirited,  was  almost  cheerful  this 
evening.  She  was  amusing  herself  with  blowing 
about  the  fluffy  feathers  which  Noemi  was  wearing 
in  her  hair.  The  latter,  languid  and  absent-minded, 
with  a  dreamy  look  in  her  eyes,  was  replying  in  mono- 
syllables to  Mme.  Davarande's  ceaseless  chatter. 

"  Nowadays,  everything  is  against  money,"  began 
M.  Bourjot  again,  sententiously.  "  There's  a  league 
— now,  for  instance,  I  made  a  road  for  the  people  at 
Sannois.  Well,  do  you  imagine  that  they  even  touch 
their  hats  to  us?  Oh  dear  no,  never.  In  1848  we  gave 
them  bushels  of  corn;  and  what  do  you  think  they 
said?  Excuse  me,  ladies,  if  I  repeat  their  words.  They 
said:  *  That  old  beast  must  be  afraid  of  us! '  That  was 
all  the  gratitude  I  had.  I  started  a  model  farm,  and 
I  applied  to  the  Government  for  a  man  to  manage  it ; 
a  red-hot  radical  was  sent  to  me,  a  rascal  who  had 
spent  his  life  running  down  the  rich.  At  present  I 
have  to  do  with  a  Municipal  Council  with  the  most 
detestable  opinions.  I  find  work  for  every  one,  don't 
I?  Thanks  to  us,  the  country  round  is  prosperous. 
Well,  if  there  were  to.  be  a  revolution,  now,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  they  would  set  fire  to  our  place.  They'd 
have  no  compunction  about  that.  You've  no  idea 

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what  enemies  you  get  if  you  pay  as  much  as  three 
hundred  and  sixty  pounds  for  taxes.  They'd  simply 
burn  us  out  of  house  and  home — they'd  have  no 
scruple  about  it.  You  see  what  happened  in  Feb- 
ruary. Oh,  my  ideas  with  regard  to  the  people  have 
quite  changed;  and  they  are  preparing  a  nice  future 
for  us,  you  can  count  on  that.  We  shall  be  simply 
ruined  by  a  lot  of  penniless  wretches.  I  can  see  that 
beforehand.  I  often  think  of  all  these  things.  If 
only  it  were  not  for  one's  children — money,  as  far  as 
I  am  concerned " 

"  What's  that  you  are  saying,  neighbour?  "  asked 
M.  Mauperin,  approaching. 

"  I'm  saying  that  I'm  afraid  the  day  will  come 
when  our  children  will  be  short  of  bread,  M.  Mau- 
perin; that's  what  I'm  saying." 

"  You'll  make  them  hesitate  about  this  wedding 
if  you  talk  like  that,"  said  M.  Mauperin. 

"  Oh,  if  my  husband  begins  with  his  gloomy  ideas, 
if  he's  going  to  talk  about  the  end  of  the  world — " 
put  in  Mme.  Bourjot. 

"  I  congratulate  you  that  you  don't  feel  the 
anxiety  I  do,"  remarked  M.  Bourjot,  bowing  to 
his  wife;  "but  I  can  assure  you  that,  without  being 
weak-minded,  there  is  every  reason  for  feeling  very 
uneasy." 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Denoisel.  "  I  think 
that  money  is  in  danger,  in  great  danger,  in  very 

223 


Renee  Mauperin 


great  danger  indeed.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  threat- 
ened by  that  envy  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  nearly 
all  revolutions;  and  then  by  progress,  which  baptizes 
the  revolutions." 

"  But,  sir,  such  progress  would  be  infamous. 
Take  me,  for  instance:  no  one  could  doubt  me.  I 
used  to  be  a  Liberal — I  am  now,  in  fact.  I  am  a 
soldier  of  Liberty,  a  born  Republican ;  I  am  for  prog- 
ress of  every  kind.  But  a  revolution  against  wealth — 
why,  it  would  be  barbarous!  We  should  be  going 
back  to  savage  times.  What  we  want  is  justice  and 
common  sense.  Can  you  imagine  now  a  society  with- 
out wealth?  " 

"  No,  not  any  more  than  a  greasy  pole  without 
a  silver  cup." 

*  What,"  continued  M.  Bourjot,  who  in  his  ex- 
citement had  not  caught  Denoisel's  words,  "  the 
money  that  I  have  earned  with  hard  work,  honestly 
and  with  the  greatest  difficulty — the  money  that  is 
mine,  that  I  have  made,  and  which  is  for  my  children 
— why,  there  is  nothing  more  sacrecH  I  even  look 
upon  the  income-tax  as  a  violation  of  property." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Denoisel  in  the  most  perfectly 
good-natured  tone,  "  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion. 
And  I  should  be  very  sorry,"  he  added  wickedly 
"  to  make  things  seem  blacker  to  you  than  they 
already  do.  But  you  see  we  have  had  a  revolution 
against  the  nobility;  we  shall  have  one  against  wealth. 

224 


Renee  Mauperin 


Great  names  have  been  abolished  by  the  guillotine, 
and  great  fortunes  will  be  done  away  with  next.  A 
man  was  considered  guilty  if  his  name  happened  to 
be  M.  de  Montmorency;  it  will  be  criminal  to  be 
M.  Two  Thousand  Pounds  a  Year.  Things  are  cer- 
tainly getting  on.  I  can  speak  all  the  more  freely 
as  I  am  absolutely  disinterested,  myself.  I  should 
not  have  had  anything  to  be  guillotined  for  in  the  old 
days,  and  I  haven't  enough  to  be  ruined  for  nowa- 
days. So,  you  see " 

"  Excuse  me,"  put  in  M.  Bourjot,  solemnly,  "  but 
your  comparison — no  one  could  deplore  excesses 
more  than  I  do,  and  the  event  of  1793  was  a  great 
crime,  sir.  The  nobility  were  treated  abominably, 
and  all  honest  people  must  be  of  the  same  opinion 
as  I  am." 

M.  Mauperin  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  Bour- 
jot of  1822. 

"  But  then,"  continued  M.  Bourjot,  "  the  situa- 
tion is  not  the  same  at  all.  Social  conditions  are 
entirely  changed,  the  basis  of  society  has  been  re- 
stored. Everything  is  different.  There  were  reasons 
— or  pretexts,  if  you  prefer  that — for  this  hatred  of 
the  nobility.  The  Revolution  of  '89  was  against 
privileges,  which  I  am  not  criticising,  but  which  ex- 
isted. That  is  quite  different.  The  fact  was  people 
wanted  equality.  It  was  more  or  less  legitimate  that 
they  should  have  it,  but  at  least  there  was  some  rea- 

225  Vol.  ig— i 


Renee  Mauperin 


son  in  it.  At  present  all  that  is  altered;  and  where 
are  the  privileges?  One  man  is  as  good  as  an- 
other. Hasn't  every  man  a  vote?  You  may  say, 
'  What  about  money? '  Well,  every  one  can  earn 
money;  all  trades  and  professions  are  open  to  every 
one." 

"  Except  those  that  are  not,"  put  in  Denoisel. 
,  "  In  short,  all  men  can  now  arrive  at  anything  and 
everything.      The   only   things   necessary   are   hard 
work,  intelligence " 

"  And  circumstances,"  put  in  Denoisel,  once  more. 

"  Circumstances  must  be  made,  sir,  by  each  man 
himself.  Just  look  at  what  society  is.  We  are  all 
parvenus.  My  father  was  a  cloth  merchant — in  a 
wholesale  way,  certainly — and  yet  you  see — now  this 
is  equality,  sir,  the  real  and  the  right  kind  of  equality. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  caste  now.  The  upper  class 
springs  from  the  people,  and  the  people  rise  to  the 
upper  class.  I  could  have  found  a  count  for  my 
daughter,  if  I  had  wanted  to.  But  it  is  just  simply 
a  case  of  evil  instincts,  evil  passions,  and  these  com- 
munist ideas — it  is  all  this  which  is  against  wealtk. 
We  hear  a  lot  of  rant  about  poverty  and  misery. 
Well,  I  can  tell  you  this,  there  has  never  been  so  much 
done  for  the  people  as  at  present.  There  is  great 
progress  with  regard  to  comfort  and  well-being  in 
France.  People  who  never  used  to  eat  meat,  now  eat 
it  twice  a  week.  These  are  facts;  and  I  am  sure  that 

226 


Renee  Mauperin 


on  that  subject  our  young  social  economist,  M. 
Henri,  could  tell  us " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Henri,  "  that  has  been  proved. 
In  twenty-five  years  the  increase  of  cattle  has  been 
twelve  per  cent.  By  dividing  the  population  of 
France  into  twelve  millions  inhabiting  the  towns,  and 
twenty-four  to  twenty-five  millions  inhabiting  the 
country  districts,  it  is  reckoned  that  the  former  con- 
sume about  sixty-five  kilogrammes  a  head  each  year, 
and  the  latter  twenty  kilogrammes  twenty-six  centi- 
grammes. I  can  guarantee  the  figures.  What  is 
quite  sure  is  that  the  most  conscientious  estimates 
prove  that  since  1789  there  has  been  an  increase  in 
the  average  length  of  life,  and  this  progress  is  the' 
surest  sign  of  prosperity  for  a  nation.  Statistics " 

"  Ah,  statistics,  the  chief  of  the  inexact  sciences!  " 
interrupted  Denoisel,  who  delighted  in  muddling  M. 
Bourjot's  brain  with  paradoxes.  "  But  I  grant  that," 
he  went  on.  "  I  grant  that  the  lives  of  the  people 
have  been  prolonged,  and  that  they  eat  more  meat 
than  they  have  ever  eaten.  Do  you,  on  that  account, 
believe  in  the  immortality  of  the  present  social 
constitution?  There  has  been  a  revolution  which 
has  brought  about  the  reign  of  the  middle  class — 
that  is  to  say,  the  reign  of  money;  and  now  you 
say:  *  Everything  is  finished;  there  must  be  no  other; 
there  can  be  no  legitimate  revolution  now.'  That  is 
quite  natural;  but,  between  ourselves,  I  don't  know 

227 


Renee  Mauperin 


up  to  what  point  the  supremacy  of  the  middle  class 
can  be  considered  as  final.  As  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned, when  once  political  equality  is  given  to  all, 
social  equality  is  complete:  that  is  perhaps  quite  just; 
but  the  thing  is  to  convince  people  of  it,  whose  in- 
terest it  is  not  to  believe  it.  One  man  is  as  good  as 
another.  Certainly  he  may  be  in  the  eyes  of  God. 
Every  one  in  this  century  of  ours  has  a  right  to  wear 
a  black  coat — provided  he  can  pay  for  it.  Modern 
equality — shall  I  explain  briefly  what  it  is?  It  is  the 
same  equality  as  our  conscription;  every  man  draws 
his  number,  but  if  you  can  pay  one  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds,  you  have  the  right  of  sending  another 
man  to  be  killed  instead  of  you.  You  spoke  of  priv- 
ileges; there  are  no  such  things  now,  that's  true.  The 
Bastille  was  destroyed;  but  it  gave  birth  to  others 
first.  Let  us  take,  for  instance,  Justice,  and  I  do 
acknowledge  that  a  man's  position,  his  name,  and 
his  money  weigh  less  and  are  made  less  of  in  courts 
of  justice  than  anywhere  else.  Well,  commit  a  crime, 
and  be,  let  us  say,  a  peer  of  France;  you  would  be 
allowed  poison  instead  of  the  scaffold.  Take  notice 
that  I  think  it  should  be  so;  I  am  only  mentioning  it 
to  show  you  how  inequalities  spring  up  again,  and, 
indeed,  when  I  see  the  ground  that  they  cover  now  I 
wonder  where  the  others  could  have  been.  Hered- 
itary rights — something  else  that  the  Revolution 
thought  it  had  buried.  All  that  was  an  abuse  of  the 

22% 


Renee  Mauperin 


former  Government,  about  which  enough  has  been 
said.  Well,  I  should  just  like  to  know  whether,  at 
present,  the  son  of  a  politician  does  not  inherit  his 
father's  name  and  all  the  privileges  connected  with 
that  name,  his  father's  electors,  his  connection,  his 
place  everywhere,  and  his  chair  at  the  Academy?  We 
are  simply  overrun  with  these  sons.  We  come  across 
them  everywhere;  they  take  all  the  good  berths  and, 
thanks  to  these  reversions,  everything  is  barred  for 
other  people.  The  fact  is  that  old  customs  are  terrible 
things  for  unmaking  laws.  You  are  wealthy,  and  you 
say  money  is  sacred.  But  why?  Well,  you  say  '  We 
are  not  a  caste.'  No,  but  you  are  already  an  aristoc- 
racy, and  quite  a  new  aristocracy,  the  insolence  of 
which  has  already  surpassed  all  the  impertinences  of 
the  oldest  aristocracies  on  the  globe.  There  is  no  court 
now,  you  say.  There  never  has  been  one,  I  should 
imagine,  in  the  whole  history  of  the  world  where 
people  have  had  to  put  up  with  such  contempt  as  in 
the  private  office  of  certain  great  bankers.  You  talk 
of  evil  instincts  and  evil  passions.  Well,  the  power  of 
the  wealthy  middle  class  is  not  calculated  to  elevate 
the  mind.  When  the  higher  ranks  of  society  are  en- 
gaged in  digesting  and  placing  out  money  there  are 
no  longer  any  ideas,  nothing  in  fact  but  appetites,  in 
the  class  below.  Formerly,  when  by  <he  side  of 
money  there  was  something  above  it  and  beyond  it, 
during  a  revolution  instead  of  asking  bluntly  for 

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Renee  Mauperin 

money — clumsy  rough  coins  with  which  to  buy  their 
happiness  —  the  people  contented  themselves  with 
asking  for  the  change  of  colours  on  a  flag,  or  with 
having  a  few  words  written  over  a  guard-house,  or 
even  with  glorious  victories  that  were  quite  hollow. 
But  in  our  times — oh,  we  all  know  where  the  heart  of 
Paris  is  now.  The  bank  would  be  besieged  instead 
of  the  Hotel  de  ville.  Ah,  the  bourgeoisie  has  made  a 
great  mistake! " 

"And  what  is  the  mistake,  pray?"  asked  M. 
Bourjot,  astounded  by  Denoisel's  tirade. 

"  That  of  not  leaving  Paradise  in  heaven — which 
was  certainly  its  place.  The  day  when  the  poor  could 
no  longer  comfort  themselves  with  the  thought  that 
the  next  life  would  make  up  to  them  for  this,  the 
day  when  the  people  gave  up  counting  on  the  happi- 
ness of  the  other  world — oh,  I  can  tell  you,  Voltaire 
did  a  lot  of  harm  to  the  wealthy  classes " 

"Ah,  you  are  right  there!"  exclaimed  M.  Bour- 
jot, impulsively.  "  That  is  quite  evident.  All  these 
wretches  ought  to  go  to  church  regularly " 


230 


XXXII 

THERE  was  a  grand  ball  at  the  Bour jots'  in  hon- 
our of  the  approaching  marriage  of  their  daughter 
with  M.  Mauperin  de  Villacourt. 

"  You  are  going  in  for  it  to-day.  How  you  are 
dancing!  "  said  Renee  to  Noemi,  fanning  her  as  she 
stood  talking  in  a  corner  of  the  vast  drawing-room. 

"  I  have  never  danced  so  much,  that's  quite  true," 
answered  Noemi,  taking  her  friend's  arm  and  leading 
her  away  into  the  small  drawing-room.  "No,  never," 
she  continued,  drawing  Renee  to  her  and  kissing  her. 
"  Oh,  how  lovely  it  is  to  be  happy,"  and  then  kissing 
her  again  in  a  perfect  fever  of  joy,  she  said:  "  She 
does  not  care  for  him  now.  Oh,  I'm  quite  sure  she 
doesn't  care  for  him.  In  the  old  days  I  could  see 
she  did  by  the  very  way  she  got  up  when  he  came; 
by  her  eyes,  her  voice,  the  very  rustle  of  her  dress, 
everything.  Then  when  he  wasn't  there,  I  could  tell 
by  her  silence  she  was  thinking  of  him.  You  are 
surprised  at  my  noticing,  silly  thing  that  I  am;  but 
there  are  some  things  that  I  understand  with  this  " — • 
and  she  drew  Renee's  hand  on  to  her  white  moire 

231 


Renee  Mauperin 


dress  just  where  her  heart  was — "  and  this  never  de- 
ceives me." 

"  And  you  love  him  now,  do  you?  "  asked  Renee. 

Noemi  stopped  her  saying  any  more  by  pressing 
her  bouquet  of  roses  against  her  friend's  lips. 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  promised  me  the  first 
redowa,"  and  a  young  man  took  Noemi  away.  She 
turned  as  she  reached  the  door  and  threw  a  kiss  to 
Renee  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 

Noemi's  confession  had  given  Renee  a  thrill  of 
joy,  and  she  had  revelled  in  the  smile  on  her  friend's 
face.  She  herself  felt  immensely  comforted  and  re- 
lieved. In  an  instant  everything  had  changed  for 
her,  and  the  thought  that  Noemi  loved  her  brother 
chased  away  all  other  ideas.  She  no  longer  saw  the 
shame  and  the  crime  which  she  had  so  long  seen 
in  this  marriage.  She  kept  repeating  to  herself 
that  Noemi  loved  him,  that  they  both  loved  each 
other.  The  rest  all  belonged  to  the  past,  and  they 
would  each  of  them  forget  that  past,  Noemi  by  for- 
giving it,  and  Henri  by  redeeming  it.  Suddenly  the 
remembrance  of  something  came  back  to  her,  bring- 
ing with  it  an  anxious  thought  and  a  vague  dread. 
She  was  determined,  however,  just  then  to  see  no 
dark  clouds  in  the  horizon  and  nothing  threatening 
in  the  future.  Chasing  all  this  from  her  mind,  she 
began  to  think  of  her  brother  and  of  Noemi  once 
more.  She  pictured  to  herself  the  wedding-day  and 

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Renee  Mauperin 


their  future  home,  and  she  recalled  the  voices  of 
some  children  she  had  once  heard  calling  "Auntie! 
Auntie!" 

"  Will  mademoiselle  do  me  the  honour  of  dancing 
with  me?  " 

It  was  Denoisel  who  was  bowing  in  front  of  her. 

"  Do  we  dance  together — you  and  I?  We  know 
each  other  too  well.  Sit  down  there,  and  don't  crease 
my  dress.  Well,  what  are  you  looking  at?  " 

Renee  was  wearing  a  dress  of  white  tulle,  trimmed 
with  seven  narrow  flounces  and  bunches  of  ivy  leaves 
and  red  berries.  In  her  bodice  and  the  tulle  ruches 
of  her  sleeves  she  wore  ivy  and  berries  to  match.  A 
long  spray  of  the  ivy  was  twisted  round  her  hair  with 
a  few  berries  here  and  there  and  the  leaves  hung 
down  over  her  shoulders.  She  was  leaning  her  head 
back  on  the  sofa,  and  her  beautiful  chestnut  hair,  which 
was  brought  forward,  fell  slightly  over  her  white  fore- 
head. There  was  a  new  gleam,  a  soft  intense  light 
in  her  brown,  dreamy  eyes,  the  expression  of  which 
could  not  be  seen.  A  shadow  played  over  her  mouth 
at  the  corners,  and  her  lips,  which  were  generally 
closed  in  a  disdainful  little  pout,  were  unsealed  and 
half  open,  partially  revealing  the  gladness  which  came 
from  her  very  soul.  The  light  fell  on  her  chin,  and  a 
ring  of  shadow  played  round  her  neck  each  time  that 
she  moved  her  head.  She  looked  charming  thus,  the 
outline  of  her  features  indistinct  under  the  full  light 

233 


Renee  Mauperin 


of  the  chandeliers,  and  her  whole  face  beaming  with 
childish  joy. 

"  You  are  very  pretty  this  evening,  Renee." 

"  Ah — this  evening?  " 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  just  lately  you've  looked 
so  worried  and  so  sad.  It  suits  you  much  better  to 
enjoy  yourself." 

"  Do  you  think  so?     Do  you  waltz?  " 

"  As  though  I  had  just  learnt  and  had  been  badly 
taught.  But  you  have  only  this  very  minute  re- 
fused." 

"  I,  refused?  What  an  idea!  Why,  I  want  to 
dance  dreadfully.  Well,  there's  plenty  of  time — 
oh,  don't  look  at  your  watch;  I  don't  want  to  know 
the  time.  And  so  you  think  I  am  gay,  do  you? 
Well,  no,  I  don't  feel  gay.  I'm  happy — I'm  very 
happy — there,  now!  I  say,  Denoisel,  when  you  are 
strolling  about  in  Paris,  you  know  those  old  women 
who  wear  Lorraine  caps,  and  who  stand  in  the  door- 
ways selling  matches — well,  you  are  to  give  a  sov- 
ereign each  to  the  first  five  you  meet;  I'll  give  it 
you  back.  I've  saved  some  money — don't  forget. 
Is  that  waltz  still  going  on?  Is  it  really  true  that  I 
refused  to  dance?  Well,  after  this  one  I'm  going  to 
dance  everything,  and  I  shall  not  be  particular  about 
my  partners.  They  can  be  as  ugly  as  they  like,  they 
can  wear  shoes  that  have  been  resoled,  and  talk  to 
me  about  Royer-Collard  if  they  like,  they  can  be 

234 


Renee  Mauperin 


too  tall  or  too  short,  they  can  come  up  to  my  elbow 
or  I  can  come  up  to  their  waist— it  won't  matter  to 
me  even  if  their  hands  perspire — I'll  dance  with  any 
of  them.  That's  how  I  feel  to-night,  and  yet  people 
say  that  I  am  not  charitable." 

Just  at  that  moment  a  man  entered  the  little 
drawing-room.  It  was  M.  Davarande. 

"  Invite  me  for  this  waltz,  please,"  said  Renee, 
and  as  she  passed  by  Denoisel  she  whispered: 

"  You  see  I'm  beginning  with  the  family." 


235 


XXXIII 

"  WHAT'S  the  matter  with  your  mother  this  even- 
ing? "  Denoisel  asked  Renee.  They  were  alone,  as 
Mme.  Mauperin  had  just  gone  upstairs  to  bed,  and 
M.  Mauperin  to  have  a  look  round  at  the  works, 
which  were  on  late  that  night. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  her,  she  seems  as " 

"  Surly  as  a  bulldog — say  it  out." 

"  Well,  but  what's  it  all  about?  " 

"Ah,  that's  just  it,"  and  Renee  began  to  laugh. 
"  The  fact  is  I've  just  lost  a  chance  of  being  married 
• — and  so  here  I  am  still." 

"  Another?    But  then  that's  your  speciality!  " 

"  Oh,  this  is  only  the  fourteenth.  That's  only  an 
average  number;  and  it's  all  through  you  that  I've 
lost  this  chance." 

"  Through  me?  Well,  I  never!  What  do  you 
mean?  " 

Renee  got  up,  put  her  hands  in  her  pockets,  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  from  one  end  to 
the  other.  Every  now  and  then  she  stopped  short, 
turned  round  on  one  heel,  and  gave  a  sort  of  whistle. 

236 


Renee  Mauperin 

"  Yes,  through  you !  "  she  said,  coming  back  to 
Denoisel.  "  What  should  you  think  if  I  told  you 
that  I  had  refused  eighty  thousand  pounds?  " 

"  They  must  have  been  astonished." 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  wasn't  rather  tempted.  It's 
no  good  setting  up  for  being  better  than  I  am;  and 
then,  too,  with  you  I  don't  make  any  pretences. 
Well,  I'll  own  that  just  for  a  minute  I  was  very  nearly 
caught.  It  was  M.  Barousse  who  arranged  it  all — 
very  nicely  indeed.  Then,  here  at  home,  they  worked 
me  up  to  it;  mamma  and  Henri  besieged  me;  I  was 
bored  to  death  about  it  all  day  long.  And  then,  too, 
quite  exceptionally  for  me,  I  began  to  have  fancies, 
too.  Anyhow,  it  is  quite  certain  that  I  slept  very 
badly  two  nights.  These  big  fortunes  do  keep  you 
awake.  Then,  too,  to  be  quite  just,  I  must  say  that 
I  thought  a  great  deal  about  papa  in  the  midst  of  it 
all.  Wouldn't  he  have  been  proud — wouldn't  he, 
now?  Wouldn't  he  have  revelled  in  my  four  thou- 
sand a  year?  He  has  so  much  vanity  always  where 
I  am  concerned.  Do  you  remember  his  indignation 
and  wrath  that  time?  '  A  son-in-law  who  would 
allow  my  daughter  to  get  in  an  omnibus! '  He  was 
superb,  wasn't  he?  Then  I  began  to  think  of  you — 
yes,  of  you — and  your  ideas,  your  paradoxes,  your 
theories,  of  all  sorts  of  things  you  had  said  to  me;  I 
thought  of  your  contempt  for  money,  and  as  I 
thought  of  it — well,  I  suppose  it  is  catching,  for  I  felt 

237 


Renee  Mauperin 


the  same  contempt  myself.  And  so  all  at  once,  one 
fine  morning,  I  just  cut  it  all  short.  No,  you  influ- 
ence me  too  much,  my  dear  boy,  decidedly." 

"  Well,  but  I'm — I'm  an  idiot,  Renee.  Oh,  I'm  so 
sorry.  I — I  thought  that  sort  of  thing  was  not  catch- 
ing— indeed  I  did.  Come,  really  now,  was  it  my 
fault?  " 

"  Yes,  yours — in  a  great  measure — and  then  just 
a  little  his  fault,  too." 

"Ah!" 

"  Yes,  it  was  just  a  little  M.  Lemeunier's.  When 
I  felt  the  money  getting  into  my  head,  when  I  was 
seriously  thinking  of  marrying  him,  why,  I  just 
looked  at  him.  And  you  didn't  know  you  were 
speaking  so  truly  the  other  day.  I  suddenly  felt  that 
I  was  a  woman — oh,  you've  no  idea  what  it  was 
like.  Then  on  the  other  hand  I  saw  how  good  he 
was.  Oh,  he  really  is  goodness  itself.  I  tried  him 
in  every  way,  I  turned  him  inside  out,  it  worried 
me  to  find  him  so  perfect;  but  it  was  no  use,  there 
was  no  fault  to  find  in  him.  He  is  thoroughly 
good,  that  man  is.  Oh,  he's  quite  different  fi;om 
Reverchon  and  the  others.  Only  fancy  what  he 
said  to  me:  'Mademoiselle,'  he  said,  'I  know  that 
you  don't  care  for  me,  but  will  you  let  me  wait 
a  little  and  see  if  you  can  dislike  me  less  than  you 
do  now? '  It  was  quite  pathetic.  Sometimes  I 
felt  inclined  to  say  to  him:  'Suppose  we  were  to 

238 


Renee  Mauperin 

sit  down  and  cry  a  little  together,  shall  we? '  For- 
tunately, when  he  made  me  feel  inclined  to  cry,  papa, 
on  the  other  hand,  made  me  want  to  laugh.  He 
looked  so  funny,  my  dear  old  father,  half  gay  and 
half  sad.  I  never  saw  such  a  resigned  kind  of  happi- 
ness. The  sadness  of  losing  me,  and  the  thought  of 
seeing  me  make  a  good  match  made  him  feel  so 
mixed  up.  Well,  it's  all  finished  now,  thank  Heaven! 
He  makes  great  eyes  at  me  as  though  he's  angry — 
didn't  you  notice,  when  mamma  was  looking  at  us? 
But  he  is  not  angry  at  all  in  reality.  He's  very  glad 
in  his  heart;  I  can  see  that." 


239 


XXXIV 

DENOISEL  was  at  Henri  Mauperin's.  They  were 
sitting  by  the  fire  talking  and  smoking.  Suddenly 
they  heard  a  noise  and  a  discussion  in  the  hall,  and, 
almost  at  the  same  time,  the  room  door  was  opened 
violently  and  a  man  entered  abruptly,  pushing  aside 
the  domestic  who  was  trying  to  keep  him  back. 

"  M.  Mauperin  de  Villacourt?  "  he  demanded. 

"  That  is  my  name,  monsieur,"  said  Henri,  rising. 

"  Well,  my  name  is  Boisjorand  de  Villacourt," 
and  with  the  back  of  his  hand  he  gave  Henri  a  blow 
which  made  his  face  bleed.  Henri  turned  as  white 
as  the  silk  scarf  he  was  wearing  as  a  necktie  and, 
with  the  blood  trickling  down  his  face,  he  bent  for- 
ward to  return  the  blow,  and  then,  just  as  suddenly, 
drew  himself  up  and  stretched  his  hand  out  towards 
Denoisel,  who  stepped  forward,  folded  his  arms,  ajid 
spoke  in  his  calmest  tone: 

"  I  think  I  understand  what  you  mean,  sir,"  he 
said;  "you  consider  that  there  is  a  Villacourt  too 
many.  I  think  so  too." 

The  visitor  was  visibly  embarrassed  before  the 
calmness  of  this  man  of  the  world.  He  took  off  his 

240 


Renee  Mauperin 


hat,  which  he  had  kept  on  his  head  hitherto,  and 
began  to  stammer  out  a  few  words. 

"  Will  you  kindly  leave  your  address  with  my 
servant?  "  said  Henri,  interrupting  him;  "  I  will  send 
round  to  you  to-morrow." 

"  A  disagreeable  affair,"  began  Henri,  when  he 
was  once  more  alone  with  Denoisel.  "  Where  can 
he  have  sprung  from,  this  Villacourt?  They  told  me 
that  there  were  none  of  them  left.  Ah,  my  face  is 
bleeding,"  he  said,  wiping  it  with  his  handkerchief. 
"  He's  a  regular  buffalo.  Georges,  bring  some 
water,"  he  called  out  to  his  domestic. 

"  You'll  choose  the  sword,  shall  you  not?  "  asked 
Denoisel.  "  Hand  me  a  stick.  Now  listen — you 
must  be  on  guard  from  the  first,  and  strike  out  very 
little.  That  man's  one  of  the  bloodthirsty  sort;  he'll 
go  straight  for  you,  and  you  must  defend  yourself 
with  circular  parries.  When  you  are  hard  pressed 
and  he  rushes  headlong  at  you,  move  aside  to  the 
right  with  the  left  foot,  turn  round  on  tip-toes  on 
your  right  foot — like  that.  He'll  have  nothing  in 
front  of  him  then,  and  you'll  have  him  from  the  side 
and  can  run  him  through  like  a  frog." 

"  No,"  said  Henri,  lifting  his  face  from  the  basin, 
in  which  he  was  sponging  it,  "  not  the  sword." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  that  man  is  evidently  a 
sportsman;  he'll  be  accustomed  to  fire-arms." 

z6  241 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  My  dear  fellow,  there  are  certain  situations 
which  are  most  awkward.  I've  taken  another  name, 
and  that's  always  ridiculous.  Here's  a  man  who  ac- 
cuses me  of  having  stolen  it  from  him.  I  have  ene- 
mies, and  a  good  number  of  them,  too;  they'll  make 
a  scandal  with  all  this.  I  must  kill  this  fellow,  that's 
very  evident;  it's  the  only  way  to  make  my  position 
good.  I  should  put  an  end  to  everything  by  that, 
lawsuits,  and  all  the  stories  and  gossip — everything. 
The  sword  would  not  serve  my  purpose.  With  the 
sword  you  can  kill  a  man  who  has  been  five  years  at 
it,  who  can  use  it,  and  who  keeps  his  body  in  the 
positions  you  have  been  accustomed  to.  But  a  man 
who  has  had  no  sword  practice,  who  jumps  and 
dances  about,  who  flourishes  it  about  like  a  stick; 
I  should  wound  him,  and  that  would  be  all.  Now 
with  the  pistol — I'm  a  good  shot,  you  know.  You 
must  do  me  the  justice  of  admitting  that  I  was  wise 
in  my  choice  of  accomplishments.  And  my  idea  is 
to  put  it  there,"  he  touched  Denoisel  as  he  spoke  just 
above  the  hip,  "  just  there,  you  see.  Higher  up,  it's 
no  good,  the  arm  is  there  to  ward  it  off;  but  her^e, 
why  there  are  a  lot  of  very  necessary  organs;  there's 
the  bladder,  for  instance;  now  if  you  are  lucky 
enough  to  hit  that,  and  if  it  should  happen  to  be  full, 
why  it  would  be  a  case  of  peritonitis.  And  you'll  get 
the  pistol  for  me.  A  duel — without  a  fuss,  you  under- 
stand. I  want  it  kept  quite  secret,  so  that  no  one 

242 


Renee  Mauperin 


shall  hear  of  it  beforehand.  Whom  shall  you  take 
with  you?  " 

"  Suppose  I  asked  Dardouillet?  He  served  in  the 
National  Guard,  in  the  cavalry;  I  shall  have  to  appeal 
to  his  military  instincts." 

"That's  the  very  thing,  good!  Will  you  call  in 
and  see  mother  first.  Tell  her  that  I  cannot  come 
before  Thursday.  It  would  be  awkward  if  she  hap- 
pened to  drop  in  on  us  just  the  next  day  or  two.  I 
shall  not  go  out;  I'll  have  a  bath  and  get  a  little  more 
presentable.  This  mark  doesn't  show  very  much 
now,  does  it?  I  shall  send  out  for  dinner,  and  then 
spend  the  evening  writing  two  or  three  necessary  let- 
ters. By-the-bye,  if  you  see  the  gentleman  to-mor- 
row morning,  why  not  have  it  out  in  the  afternoon  at 
four  o'clock?  It's  just  as  well  to  get  it  over.  To- 
morrow you'll  find  me  here  all  the  day — or  else  I  shall 
be  at  the  shooting  gallery.  Arrange  things  as  you 
would  for  yourself,  and  thanks  for  all  your  trouble,  old 
man.  Four  o'clock,  then — if  possible." 


243 


XXXV 

THE  name  of  the  farm  that  Henri  Mauperin  had 
added  to  his  surname  to  make  it  sound  more  aristo- 
cratic happened,  by  a  strange  chance,  such  as  some- 
times occurs,  to  be  the  name  of  an  estate  in  Lorraine 
and  of  a  family,  illustrious  in  former  days,  but  at 
present  so  completely  forgotten  that  every  one  be- 
lieved it  had  died  out. 

The  man  who  had  just  dealt  Henri  this  blow  was 
the  last  of  those  Villacourts  who  took  their  name 
from  the  domain  and  chateau  of  Villacourt,  situated 
some  three  leagues  from  Saint-Mihiel,  and  owned  by 
them  from  time  immemorial. 

In  1303  Ulrich  de  Villacourt  was  one  of  the  three 
lords  who  set  their  seal  to  the  will  of  Ferry,  Duke  of 
Lorraine,  by  order  of  that  prince.  Under  Charles  t^ie 
Bold,  Gantonnet  de  Villacourt,  who  had  been  taken 
prisoner  by  the  Messinians,  only  regained  his  liberty 
by  giving  his  word  never  to  mount  a  battle-horse,  nor 
to  carry  military  weapons  again.  From  that  time 
forth  he  rode  a  mule,  arrayed  himself  in  buffalo-skin, 
carried  a  heavy  iron  bar,  and  returned  to  the  fight 

244 


Renee  Mauperin 


bolder  and  more  terrible  than  ever.  Maheu  de  Villa- 
court  married  Gigonne  de  Malain  and  afterward 
Christine  de  Gliseneuve.  His  marble  statue,  between 
his  two  wives,  was  to  be  seen  before  the  Revolution 
in  the  Church  of  the  Grey  Friars  at  Saint-Mihiel. 
Duke  Rene  allowed  him  to  take  eight  hundred  florins 
from  the  town  of  Ligny  for  the  ransom  that  he  had 
had  to  pay  after  the  disastrous  battle  of  Bulgneville. 

Remacle  de  Villacourt,  Maheu's  son,  was  killed 
in  1476,  in  the  battle  waged  by  Duke  Rene  before 
Nancy  against  Charles  the  Daring.  Hubert  de  Villa- 
court,  Remacle's  sons,  Seneschal  of  Barrois  and  Bailiff 
of  Bassigny,  followed  Duke  Antoine  as  standard- 
bearer  in  the  Alsatian  war,  while  his  brother  Bona- 
venture,  a  monk  of  the  strict  order  of  Saint-Frangois, 
was  made  three  times  over  the  triennial  Superior  of 
his  order,  and  confessor  of  Antoine  and  Francois, 
Dukes  of  Lorraine;  and  one  of  his  sisters,  Salmone, 
was  appointed  Abbess  of  Sainte  Glossinde  of  Metz. 

Jean-Marie  de  Villacourt  served  in  the  French 
army,  and  after  the  Landrecies  day,  the  king  made 
him  a  knight  and  embraced  him.  He  was  afterward 
captain  of  three  hundred  foot  soldiers  and  Equerry 
of  the  King's  stables,  and  was  then  appointed  to  the 
captaincy  of  Vaucouleurs  and  made  Governor  of 
Langres.  He  had  married  a  sister  of  Jean  de  Cha- 
ligny,  the  celebrated  gun-founder  of  Lorraine,  who 
cast  the  famous  culverin,  twenty-two  feet  high.  His 

245 


Renee  Mauperin 


brother  Philibert  was  a  cavalry  captain  under  Charles 
IX.  His  brother  Gaston  made  himself  famous  by  his 
duels.  It  was  he  who  killed  Captain  Chambrulard, 
with  two  sword-strokes,  before  four  thousand  persons 
assembled  at  the  back  of  the  Chartreux  in .  Paris. 
Jean-Marie  had  another  brother,  Angus,  who  was 
Canon  of  Toul  and  Archdeacon  of  Tonnerrois,  and  a 
sister,  Archange,  who  was  Abbess  of  Saint-Maur, 
Verdun. 

Then  came  Guillaume  de  Villacourt,  who  fought 
against  Louis  XIII.  He  was  obliged  to  surrender 
with  Charles  de  Lenoncourt,  who  was  defending  the 
town  of  Saint-Mihiel,  and  he  shared  his  four  years' 
captivity  in  the  Bastille.  His  son,  Mathias  de  Villa- 
court,  married  in  1656  Marie  Dieudonnee,  a  daughter 
of  Claude  de  Jeandelincourt,  who  opened  the  salt 
mine  of  Chateau-Salins.  Mathias  had  fourteen  chil- 
dren, ten  of  whom  were  killed  in  the  service  of  Louis 
XIV:  Charles,  captain  of  the  regiment  of  the  Pont, 
killed  in  the  siege  of  Philisbourg;  Jean,  killed  in  the 
battle  of  Nerwinde;  Antoine,  captain  of  the  regiment 
of  Normandie,  killed  in  the  siege  of  Fontarabie;  Jao- 
ques,  killed  in  the  siege  of  Bellegarde,  where  he  had 
gone  by  permission  of  the  king;  Philippe,  captain  of 
the  grenadiers  in  the  Dauphin's  regiment,  killed  in 
the  battle  of  Marsaille;  Thibaut,  captain  in  the  same 
regiment,  killed  in  the  battle  of  Hochstett;  Pierre- 
Frangois,  commander  in  the  Lyonnais  regiment, 

246 


Renee  Mauperin 

killed  in  the  battle  of  Fleurus;  Claude-Marie,  com- 
mander in  the  Perigord  regiment,  killed  in  the  pas- 
sage of  the  Hogue;  Edme,  lieutenant  in  his  brother's 
company,  killed  at  his  side  in  the  same  affair,  and 
Gerard,  Knight  of  the  Order  of  Saint-Jean  of  Jeru- 
salem, killed  in  1700,  in  a  conflict  between  four  gal- 
leys of  Christians  and  a  Turkish  man-of-war.  Of  the 
three  daughters  of  Charles-Mathias,  Lydie  married 
the  Seigneur  de  Majastre,  Governor  of  Epinal,  and 
the  other  two,  Berthe  and  Phoebe,  died  unmarried. 

The  eldest  of  the  sons  of  Charles-Mathias,  Louis- 
Aime  de  Villacourt,  who  served  eighteen  years  and 
retired  from  service  after  the  battle  of  Malplaquet, 
died  in  1702.  His  son  left  Villacourt,  settled  down 
in  Paris,  threw  himself  into  the  life  of  the  capital, 
and  so  got  rid  of  the  remainder  of  a  fortune  which 
had  already  been  encroached  upon  by  the  loss  of  a 
lawsuit  between  his  father  and  the  d'Haraucourts. 
He  endeavoured  to  recover  his  losses  at  the  gaming- 
table, got  into  debt,  and  returned  to  Villacourt  with 
a  wife  from  Carrouge  who  had  kept  a  gambling 
house  in  Paris.  He  died  in  1752,  owning  very 
little  besides  the  walls  of  the  chateau,  and  leaving 
a  name  less  famous  and  less  honourable  than  his 
father's  had  been.  He  had  two  children  by  his  mar- 
riage, a  daughter  and  a  son.  The  daughter  became 
maid  of  honour  to  the  Empress-Queen,  the  son  re- 
mained at  Villacourt,  leading  a  low,  coarse  life  as  a 

247 


•   Renee  Mauperin 

country  gentleman.  On  the  abolition  of  privileges 
in  1790  he  gave  up  his  rank  and  lived  on  a  friendly 
and  equal  footing  with  the  peasants  until  he  died  in 
1792.  His  son  Jean,  lieutenant  in  the  regiment  of 
the  Royal-Liegeois  in  1787,  was  in  the  Nancy  affair. 
He  emigrated,  went  through  the  campaigns  of  1792 
to  1801  in  Mirabeau's  legion,  which  was  then  com- 
manded by  Roger  de  Damas,  and  in  the  Bourbon 
grenadiers  in  Conde's  army.  On  the  thirteenth  of 
August,  1796,  he  was  wounded  on  the  head  in  the 
Oberkamlach  battle.  In  1802  he  returned  to  France, 
bringing  with  him  a  wife  he  had  married  in  Ger- 
many, who  died  after  bearing  him  four  children,  four 
sons.  He  had  become  weak  in  intellect,  almost  child- 
ish in  fact,  from  the  result  of  his  wound,  and  after 
his  wife's  death  there  was  no  one  to  regulate  the 
household  expenses.  Disorder  gradually  crept  in,  he 
kept  open  table  and  took  to  drinking,  until  at  last 
he  was  obliged  to  sell  what  little  land  he  had  round 
the  chateau.  Finally  the  chateau  itself  began  to 
crumble  away.  He  could  not  have  it  repaired,  as  he 
had  no  money  to  pay  the  workmen.  The  wind  could 
be  felt  through  the  cracks,  and  the  rain  came  in.  The 
family  were  obliged  to  give  up  one  room  after  an- 
other, taking  refuge  where  the  roof  was  still  sound. 
He  himself  was  indifferent  to  all  this;  after  drinking 
two  or  three  glasses  of  brandy  he  would  take  his  seat 
in  what  used  to  be  the  kitchen  garden,  on  a  stone 

248 


Renee  Mauperin 


bench  near  a  meridian,  the  figures  of  which  had  worn 
away,  and  there  he  would  get  quite  cheerful  in  the 
sunshine,  calling  to  people  over  the  hedge  to  come 
in  and  drink  with  him.  Decay  and  poverty,  how- 
ever, made  rapid  strides  in  the  chateau.  There  was 
nothing  left  of  all  the  old  silver  but  a  salad-bowl, 
which  was  used  for  the  food  of  a  horse  called 
Brouska,  that  the  exile  had  brought  with  him  from 
Germany,  and  which  was  now  allowed  to  roam  in 
liberty  through  the  rooms  on  the  ground-floor. 

The  four  sons  grew  up  as  the  chateau  went  to 
decay,  accustomed  to  wind,  rain,  and  roughing  it. 
They  were  entirely  neglected  and  abandoned  by  their 
father,  and  their  only  education  consisted  of  a  few 
lessons  from  the  parish  priest.  From  living  like  the 
peasants,  and  mixing  with  them  in  their  work  and 
games,  they  gradually  became  regular  peasants  them- 
selves, and  the  roughest  and  strongest  in  the  country 
round.  When  their  father  died  the  four  brothers, 
by  common  consent,  made  over  to  a  land  agent  the 
remaining  stones  of  their  chateau  in  return  for  a 
few  pounds,  with  which  to  pay  their  most  pressing 
debts,  and  an  annuity  of  twenty  pounds,  which  was 
to  be  paid  until  the  death  of  the  last  of  the  four. 
They  then  took  up  their  abode  in  the  forest,  which 
joined  their  estate,  and  lived  there  with  the  wood- 
cutters and  in  the  same  way  as  they  did,  making  a 
•  regular  den  of  their  hut,  and  living  there  with  their 

249 


Renee  Mauperin 

sweethearts  or  wives,  peopling  the  forest  with  a  half- 
bred  race,  in  which  the  Villacourts  were  crossed  with 
nature,  noblemen  mated  with  children  of  the  forest, 
whose  language,  even,  was  no  longer  French.  Some 
of  Jean  de  Villacourt's  old  comrades  in  arms  had  tried, 
on  his  death,  to  do  something  for  his  children.  They 
were  interested  in  this  name,  which  had  been  so  great 
and  had  now  fallen  so  low.  In  1826  the  youngest  of 
the  boys,  who  was  scarcely  more  than  sixteen,  was 
brought  to  Paris.  The  little  savage  was  clothed  and 
presented  to  the  Duchesse  d'Angouleme:  he  appeared 
three  or  four  times  in  the  salons  of  the  Minister  of 
War,  who  was  related  to  his  family,  and  who  was  very 
anxious  to  do  something  for  him;  but  at  the  end  of 
a  week,  feeling  stifled  in  these  drawing-rooms,  and  ill 
at  ease  in  his  clothes,  he  had  escaped  like  a  little  wolf, 
gone  straight  back  to  his  hiding-place,  and  had  not 
come  out  of  it  again  for  years. 

Of  these  four  Villacourts,  he  was  the  only  one  left 
at  the  end  of  twenty  years.  His  three  brothers  died 
one  after  the  other,  and  all  by  violent  deaths;  one 
from  drunkenness,  the  second  from  illness,  and.  the 
other  from  blows  he  had  received  in  a  skirmish.  All 
three  had  been  struck  down  suddenly,  snatched  as  it 
were  from  the  midst  of  life.  Living  among  the  bas- 
tards they  had  left,  this  last  of  the  Villacourts  was 
looked  up  to  in  the  forest  as  the  chieftain  of  a  clan 
until  1854,  when  the  game  laws  came  into  force.  All 

250 


Renee  Mauperin 


the  regulations  and  the  supervision,  the  trials,  fines, 
confiscations,  and  liabilities  connected  with  the  chase, 
which  had  now  become  his  very  life,  and  the  fear  of 
giving  way  to  his  anger  some  day  and  of  putting  a 
bullet  into  one  of  the  keepers,  disgusted  him  with 
this  part  of  the  world,  with  France,  and  with  this  land 
which  was  no  longer  his  own. 

It  occurred  to  him  to  go  to  America  in  order  to 
be  quite  free,  and  to  be  able  to  hunt  in  untrodden 
fields  where  no  gun  license  was  necessary.  He  went 
to  Paris  to  set  sail  from  Havre,  but  he  had  not 
enough  money  for  the  voyage.  He  then  fell  back  on 
Africa,  but  there  he  found  a  second  France  with  laws, 
gendarmes,  and  forest-keepers.  He  tried  working  a 
grant  of  land,  and  then  a  clearing,  but  that  kind  of 
labour  did  not  suit  him.  The  country  and  the  climate 
tried  him,  and  the  burning  heat  of  the  sun  and  soil 
began  to  take  effect  on  his  robust  health.  At  the  end 
of  two  years  he  returned  to  France. 

On  going  back  to  his  log-hut  at  Motte-Noire  he 
found  a  newspaper  there,  the  only  thing  which  had 
come  for  him  during  his  absence.  It  was  a  number 
of  the  Moniteur  and  was  more  than  a  year  old.  He 
tore  it  up  to  light  his  pipe,  and,  just  as  he  was  twist- 
ing it,  caught  sight  of  a  red-pencil  mark.  He  opened 
it  out  again  and  read  the  marked  paragraph: 

"  M.  Mauperin  (Alfred-Henri),  better  known  by 
the  name  of  Villacourt,  is  about  to  apply  to  the 

251 


Renee  Mauperin 


Keeper  of  the  Seals  for  permission  to  add  to  his 
name  that  of  Villacourt,  and  will  henceforth  be 
known  as  Mauperin  de  Villacourt" 

He  got  up,  walked  about,  fumed,  then  sat  down 
again,  and  slowly  lighted  his  pipe. 

Three  days  later  he  was  in  Paris. 

Just  at  first  on  reading  the  paper  he  had  felt  as 
though  some  one  had  struck  him  across  the  face  with 
a  horsewhip.  Then  he  had  said  to  himself  that  he 
was  robbed  of  his  name,  but  that  was  all,  that  his 
name  was  no  longer  worth  anything,  as  it  was  now 
the  name  of  a  beggar.  This  philosophizing  mood 
did  not  last  long,  the  thought  of  the  theft  of  his  name 
gradually  came  back  to  him,  and  it  irritated  and  hurt 
him,  and  made  him  feel  bitter.  After  all  he  had  noth- 
ing left  but  this  name,  and  he  could  not  endure  the 
idea  of  having  it  stolen  from  him,  and  so  started  for 
Paris. 

On  arriving  he  was  as  furious  as  a  mad  bull,  and 
his  one  idea  was  to  go  and  knock  this  M.  Mauperin 
down  at  once.  When  once  he  was  in  the  capital, 
though,  with  its  streets  and  its  crowds,  face  to  -face 
with  its  people,  its  shops,  its  life,  all  the  passers-by, 
and  the  noise,  he  felt  dazed,  like  some  wild  beast  let 
loose  in  a  huge  circus,  whose  rage  is  suddenly  turned 
into  fright  and  who  stops  short  after  its  first  leap. 
He  went  straight  to  the  law  courts,  and  in  the  long 
hall  accosted  one  of  those  men  in  black,  who  are  gen- 

252 


Renee  Mauperin 


erally  leaning  against  a  pillar,  and  told  him  what  had 
happened.  The  man  in  black  informed  him  that  as 
the  year's  delay  had  expired  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  but  appeal  to  the  high  court  against  the  decree 
authorizing  the  addition  of  the  name,  and  he  gave 
him  the  address  of  a  counsel  of  the  higher  court.  M. 
de  Villacourt  hurried  to  this  counsel.  He  found  a 
very  cold,  polite  man,  wearing  a  white  necktie,  who, 
while  leaning  back  in  a  green  morocco  chair,  listened 
with  a  fixed  expression  in  his  eyes  all  the  time  to  his 
case,  his  claims,  his  rights,  his  indignation,  and  to  the 
sound  of  the  parchments  he  was  turning  over  with  a 
nervous  hand. 

The  expression  of  the  counsel's  face  never 
changed,  so  that  when  M.  de  Villacourt  had  finished 
he  fancied  that  the  other  man  had  not  understood, 
and  he  began  all  over  again.  The  lawyer  stopped  him 
with  a  gesture,  saying:  "  I  think  you  will  .gain  your 
case,  monsieur." 

''  You  think  so?  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are! 
not  sure  of  it?  " 

"  A  lawsuit  is  always  a  lawsuit,  monsieur,"  an- 
swered the  lawyer  with  a  faint  smile,  which  was  so 
sceptical  that  it  chilled  M.  de  Villacourt,  who  was  just 
prepared  to  burst  out  in  a  rage.  "  The  chances  are 
on  your  side,  though,  and  I  am  quite  willing  to  under- 
take your  case." 

"  Here  you  are  then,"  said  M.  de  Villacourt,  put- 
253 


Renee  Mauperin 

ting  his  roll  of  title-deeds  down  on  the  desk.  "  Thank 
you,  sir,"  he  added,  rising  to  take  his  leave. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  the  lawyer  on  seeing  him  walk 
towards  the  door,  "  but  I  must  call  your  attention  to 
the  fact  that  in  business  of  this  kind,  in  an  appeal 
to  the  higher  court,  we  do  not  only  act  as  the  barris- 
ter but  as  the  lawyer  of  our  client.  There  are  certain 
expenses,  for  getting  information  and  examining 
deeds —  If  I  take  up  your  case  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
ask  you  to  cover  these  expenses.  Oh,  it  is  only  a 
matter  of  from  twenty  to  twenty-five  pounds.  Let  us 
say  twenty  pounds." 

"Twenty  to  twenty-five  pounds!  Why,  what  do 
you  mean!  "  exclaimed  M.  de  Villacourt,  turning  red 
with  indignation.  "  Some  one  steals  my  name,  and 
because  I  have  not  seen  the  newspaper  in  which  the 
man  warns  me  that  he  intends  robbing  me,  I  must 
pay  twenty-five  pounds  to  make  this  rascal  give  up 
my  name  again.  Twenty  to  twenty-five  pounds! 
But  I  haven't  the  money,  sir,"  he  said,  lowering  his 
head  and  letting  his  arms  fall  down  at  his  sides. 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry,  monsieur,  but  this  Jittle 
formality  is  indispensable.  Oh,  you  must  be  able  to 
find  it.  I  feel  sure  that  among  the  relatives  of  the 
families  into  which  your  family  has  married — in  such 
questions  as  these,  families  are  always  ready  to  pull 
together." 

"  I  do  not  know  any  one — and  the  Count  de  Vil- 
254 


Renee  Mauperin 

lacourt  will  never  ask  for  money.  I  had  just  twelve 
pounds  when  I  arrived.  I  bought  this  coat  for  about 
two  pounds  at  the  Palais  Royal  on  the  way  here. 
This  hat  cost  me  five  and  tenpence.  I  suppose  my 
hotel  bill  will  cost  me  about  a  sovereign,  and  I  shall 
want  about  a  sovereign  to  get  back  home.  Could 
you  do  with  what  is  left?  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  monsieur " 

M.  de  Villacourt  put  his  hat  on  and  left  the  room. 
At  the  hall-door  he  suddenly  turned  round,  passed 
through  the  dining-room  and  opening  the  office- 
door  again,  he  said,  in  a  smothered  voice  which  he  was 
doing  his  utmost  to  control: 

"  Can  I  have  the  address  of  M.  Henri  Mauperin 
— known  as  de  Villacourt — without  paying  for  it?  " 

"  Certainly;  he  is  a  barrister.  I  shall  find  his  ad- 
dress in  this  book.  Here  it  is;  Rue  Taitbout — 14." 

It  was  after  all  this  that  M.  de  Villacourt  had  hur- 
ried away  to  Henri  Mauperin's. 


255 


XXXVI 

WHEN  Denoisel  entered  the  Mauperins'  drawing- 
room  that  evening  he  found  every  one  more  gay  and 
cheerful  than  usual.  There  was  a  look  of  happiness 
on  all  the  faces;  M.  Mauperin's  good-humour  could 
be  guessed  by  the  mischievous  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 
Mme.  Mauperin  was  most  gracious,  she  positively 
beamed  and  looked  blissfully  happy.  Renee  was  flit- 
ting about  the  room,  and  her  quick,  girlish  move- 
ments were  so  bird-like  that  one  could  almost  imagine 
the  sound  of  a  bird's  wings. 

"Why,  here's  Denoisel!"  exclaimed  M.  Mau- 
perin. 

"  Good-evening,  m'sieu,"  said  Renee,  in  a  play- 
ful tone. 

"  You  haven't  brought  Henri  with  you?  "  asked 
Mme.  Mauperin. 

"  He  couldn't  come.  He'll  be  here  the  day  after 
to-morrow  without  fail." 

"  How  nice  of  you!  Oh,  isn't  he  a  good  boy  to 
have  come  this  evening,"  said  Renee,  hovering  round 
and  trying  to  make  him  laugh  as  though  he  had  been 
a  child. 

256 


Renee  Mauperin 

"  Oh,  he's  a  bad  lot!  Ah,  my  dear  fellow—"  and 
M.  Mauperin  shook  hands  and  winked  at  his  wife. 

"  Yes;  just  come  here,  Denoisel,"  said  Mme.  Mau- 
perin. "  Come  and  sit  down  and  confess  your  sins. 
It  appears  that  you  were  seen  the  other  day  in  the 
Bois — driving " 

She  stopped  a  minute  like  a  cat  when  it  is  drink- 
ing milk. 

"Ah,  now  your  mother's  wound  up!"  said  M. 
Mauperin  to  Renee.  "  She's  in  very  good  spirits 
to-day — my  wife  is.  I  warn  you,  Denoisel." 

Mme.  Mauperin  had  lowered  her  voice.  Leaning 
forward  towards  Denoisel  she  was  telling  him  a  very 
lively  story.  The  others  could  only  catch  a  word 
here  and  there  between  smothered  bursts  of  laughter. 

"Mamma,  it's  not  allowed;  that  sort  of  thing — 
laughing  all  to  yourselves.  Give  me  back  my  De- 
noisel, or  I'll  tell  stories  like  yours  to  papa." 

"Oh,  dear,  wasn't  it  absurd!"  said  Mme.  Mau- 
perin, when  she  had  finished  her  bit  of  gossip,  laugh- 
ing heartily  as  old  ladies  do  over  a  spicy  tale. 

"  How  very  lively  you  all  are  this  evening! "  ex- 
claimed Denoisel,  chilled  by  all  this  gaiety. 

"  Yes,  we  are  as  gay  as  Pinchon,"  said  Renee, 
"  that's  how  we  all  feel !  And  we  shall  be  like  this 
to-morrow,  and  the  day  after,  and  always;  shall  we 
not,  papa?  "  and  running  across  to  her  father  she  sat 
down  on  his  knees  like  a  child. 

257  Vol.  12— J 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  My  darling!  "  said  M.  Mauperin  to  his  daughter. 
"Well,  I  never!  Just  look,  my  dear,  do  you  remem- 
ber? This  was  her  knee  when  she  was  a  little  girl." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mme.  Mauperin,  "  and  Henri  had  the 
other  one." 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  them  now,"  continued  M.  Mau- 
perin; "  Henri  was  the  girl  and  you  were  the  boy, 
Renee.  Just  to  fancy  that  all  that  was  fifteen  years 
ago.  It  used  to  amuse  you  finely  when  I  let  you  put 
your  little  hands  on  the  scars  that  my  wounds  had 
left.  What  rascals  of  children  they  were!  How  they 
laughed!"  Then  turning  to  his  wife  he  added, 
"  What  work  you  had  with  them,  my  dear.  It 
doesn't  matter  though,  Denoisel;  it's  a  good  thing 
to  have  a  family.  Instead  of  only  having  one  heart, 
it's  as  though  you  have  several — upon  my  word 
it  is!" 

"  Ah,  Denoisel,  now  that  you  are  here,  we  shall 
not  let  you  go  again,"  said  Renee.  "  Your  room  has 
been  waiting  for  you  long  enough." 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  Renee,  but  really  I  have  some 
business  to  attend  to  this  evening  in  Paris;  I  have, 
really." 

"Oh,  business!  You?  How  important  you 
must  feel,  to  be  sure!  " 

"  Do  stay,  Denoisel,"  said  M.  Mauperin.  "  My 
wife  has  a  whole  collection  of  stories  for  you  like  the 
one  she  has  just  told  you." 

258 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Oh  yes,  do,  will  you?  "  pleaded  Renee.  "  We'll 
have  such  fun;  you'll  see.  I  won't  touch  the  piano 
at  all,  and  I  won't  put  too  much  vinegar  in  the  salad. 
We'll  make  puns  on  everything.  Come  now,  De- 
noisel." 

"  I  accept  your  invitation  for  next  week." 

"  Horrid  thing! "  and  Renee  turned  her  back 
on  him. 

"  And  Dardouillet,"  said  Denoisel;  "  isn't  he  com- 
ing this  evening?  " 

"  Oh,  he'll  come  later  on,"  said  Mauperin.  "  By- 
the-bye,  it's  just  possible  he  won't  come,  though. 
He's  very  busy — in  the  very  thick  of  marking  out  his 
land.  I  fancy  he's  just  busy  transporting  his  moun- 
tain into  his  lake  and  his  lake  on  to  the  top  of  his 
mountain." 

"  Well,  but  what  about  this  evening?  " 

"  Oh,  this  evening — no  one  knows,"  said  Renee. 
"  He's  full  of  mysteries,  M.  Dardouillet.  But  how 
queer  you  look  to-day,  Denoisel!  " 

"  I  do?  " 

"Yes,  you;  you  don't  seem  at  all  frolicsome; 
there's  no  sparkle  about  you.  What's  been  ruffling 
you?  " 

"  Denoisel,  there's  something  the  matter,"  said 
Mme.  Mauperin. 

"  Nothing  whatever,  madame,"  answered  Denoi- 
sel. "  What  could  be  the  matter  with  me?  I'm  not 

259 


Renee  Mauperin 


low-spirited  in  the  least.  I'm  simply  tired;  I've  had 
to  rush  about  so  much  this  last  week  for  Henri.  He 
would  have  my  opinion  about  everything  in  connec- 
tion with  his  furnishing." 

"  Ah  yes,"  said  Mme.  Mauperin,  her  face  lighting 
up  with  joy;  "  it's  true,  the  twenty-second  is  getting 
near.  Oh,  if  any  one  had  told  me  this  two  years  ago! 
I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  too  happy  to  live  on  that  day. 
Just  think  of  it,  my  dear,"  and  she  half  closed  her  eyes 
and  revelled  in  her  dreams  of  the  future. 

"  I  shall  be  simply  lovely  for  the  occasion,  I  can 
tell  you,  Denoisel,"  said  Renee.  "  I  have  had  my 
dress  tried  on  to-day,  and  it  fits  me  to  perfection. 
But,  papa,  what  about  a  dress-coat?  " 

"  My  old  dress-coat  is  quite  new." 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  have  one  made,  a  newer  one 
still,  if  I'm  to  take  your  arm.  Oh,  how  silly  I  am; 
you  won't  take  me  in,  of  course.  Denoisel,  please 
keep  a  quadrille  for  me.  We  shall  give  a  ball,  of 
course,  mamma?  " 

"  A  ball  and  everything  that  we  can  give,"  said 
Mme.  Mauperin.  "  I  expect  people  will  think  i^  is 
not  quite  the  thing;  but  I  can't  help  that.  I  want  it 
to  be  very  festive — as  it  was  for  our  wedding,  do  you 
remember,  my  dear?  We'll  dance  and  eat  and  drink, 
and " 

"Yes,  that's  what  we'll  do,"  said  Renee,  "and 
we'll  let  all  our  workpeople  drink  till  they  are  quite 

260 


Renee  Mauperin 


merry — Denoisel  too.  It  will  liven  him  up  a  little 
to  have  too  much  to  drink." 

"Well,  with  all  this,  I  don't  fancy  Dardouillet's 
coming " 

"  What  in  the  world  makes  you  so  anxious  to  see 
Dardouillet,  this  evening?  "  asked  M.  Mauperin. 

"  Yes,  that's  true,"  put  in  Renee.  "  That  hasn't 
been  explained.  Please  explain,  Denoisel." 

"  How  inquisitive  you  are,  Renee.  It's  just  a 
bit  of  nonsense — nothing  that  matters.  I  want  him 
to  lend  me  his  bulldog  for  a  rat-fight  at  my  club 
to-morrow.  I've  made  a  bet  that  he'll  kill  a  hundred 
in  two  minutes.  And  with  that  I  must  depart. 
Good-night,  all!" 

"Good-night!" 

"  Then,  my  boy  will  be  here  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, for  sure?  "  said  Mme.  Mauperin  at  the  door 
to  Denoisel. 

Denoisel  nodded  without  answering. 


261 


XXXVII 

ON  arriving  at  Dardouillet's  little  house  at  the 
other  end  of  the  village,  Denoisel  rang  the  bell.  An 
old  woman  opened  the  door. 

"  Has  M.  Dardouillet  gone  to  bed?  " 

"  Gone  to  bed?  No,  indeed!  A  nice  life  he 
leads!"  answered  the  old  servant;  "he's  pottering 
about  in  the  garden;  you'll  find  him  there,"  and  she 
opened  the  long  window  of  the  dining-room. 

The  bright  moonlight  fell  on  a  garden  absolutely 
bare,  as  square  as  a  handkerchief,  and  with  the  soil 
all  turned  over  like  a  field.  In  one  corner,  standing 
motionless  and  with  folded  arms,  on  a  hillock,  was  a 
black  figure  which  looked  like  a  spectre  in  one  of 
Biard's  pictures.  It  was  M.  Dardouillet,  and  he  was 
so  deeply  absorbed  that  he  did  not  see  his  visitor 
until  Denoisel  was  quite  close  to  him. 

"  Ah,  it's  you,  M.  Denoisel?  I'm  delighted  to 
see  you.  Just  look  now,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  loose 
soil  all  round.  "  What  do  you  think  of  that?  Plenty 
of  lines  there,  I  hope ;  and  it's  all  quite  soft  and  loose, 
you  know,"  and  he  put  his  hand  out  over  the  plan 

262 


Renee  Mauperin 


of  his  rising  ground  as  though  he  were  stroking  the 
brow  of  his  ideal  hill. 

"  Excuse  me,  M.  Dardouillet/'  said  Denoisel. 
"  I've  come  about  an  affair  that " 

"  Moonlight — remember  that — if  ever  you  have  a 
garden — there's  nothing  like  moonlight  for  seeing 
what  you  have  done — exactly  as  it  is.  By  daylight 
you  can't  see  the  embankments " 

"  M.  Dardouillet,  I  want  to  appeal  to  a  man  who 
has  worn  a  soldier's  uniform.  You  are  a  friend  of 
the  Mauperins.  I  have  come  to  ask  you  if  you  will 
act  for  Henri  as " 

"  A  duel? "  And  Dardouillet  fastened  up  the 
black  coat  he  wore,  winter  and  summer  alike,  with  all 
that  was  left  of  the  button.  "  Good  heavens!  Yes, 
a  service  of  that  kind  is  a  duty." 

"  I  shall  take  you  back  with  me,  then,"  said 
Denoisel,  putting  his  arm  through  Dardouillet's. 
"  You  can  sleep  at  my  place.  It  must  be  settled 
quickly.  It  will  be  all  over  to-morrow,  or  the  day 
after  at  the  latest." 

"  Good!  "  said  Dardouillet,  looking  regretfully  at 
a  line  of  stakes  that  had  been  commenced,  the  shad- 
ows of  which  the  moon  threw  on  the  ground. 


263 


XXXVIII 

ON  leaving  Henri  Mauperin's,  M.  de  Villacourt 
had  suddenly  recollected  that  he  had  no  friends,  no 
one  at  all  whom  he  could  ask  to  serve  as  seconds. 
This  had  not  occurred  to  him  before.  He  remem- 
bered two  or  three  names  which  had  been  mixed  up 
in  his  father's  family  history,  and  he  went  along  the 
streets  trying  to  find  the  houses  where  he  had  been 
taken  when  he  had  come  to  Paris  in  his  boyhood. 
He  rang  at  several  doors,  but  either  the  people  were 
no  longer  living  there  or  they  were  not  at  home 
to  him. 

At  night  he  returned  to  his  lodging-house.  He 
had  never  before  felt  so  absolutely  alone  in  the  world. 
When  he  was  taking  the  key  of  his  bed-room,  the 
landlady  asked  him  if  he  would  not  have  a  glassvof 
beer  and,  opening  a  door  in  a  passage,  showed  him 
into  a  cafe  which  took  up  the  ground-floor  of  the 
house. 

Some  swords  were  hanging  from  the  hat-pegs, 
with  cocked  hats  over  them.  At  the  far  end,  through 
the  tobacco  smoke,  he  could  see  men  dressed  in 

264 


Renee  Mauperin 


military  uniform  moving  about  round  a  billiard-table. 
A  sickly  looking  boy  with  a  white  apron  on  was  run- 
ning to  and  fro,  scared  and  bewildered,  giving  the 
Army  Monitor  and  the  other  papers  a  bath,  each  time 
that  he  put  a  glass  or  cup  on  the  table. 

Near  the  counter,  a  drum-major  was  playing  at 
backgammon  with  the  landlord  of  the  cafe  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves. On  every  side  voices  could  be  heard  calling 
out  and  answering  each  other,  with  the  rolling  accent 
peculiar  to  soldiers.  ( 

"  To-morrow  I'm  on  duty  at  the  theatre." 

"  I  take  my  week." 

"  Gaberiau  is  beadle  at  Saint-Sulpice." 

"  He  was  proposed  and  was  to  be  examined." 

"  Who's  on  service  at  the  Bourdon  ball?  " 

"What  an  idea!  to  blow  his  brains  out  when  he 
hadn't  a  single  punishment  down  on  his  book!  " 

It  was  very  evident  that  they  were  the  Paris 
Guards  from  the  barracks,  just  near,  waiting  until  nine 
o'clock  for  the  roll-call. 

"  Waiter,  a  bowl  of  punch  and  three  glasses,"  said 
M.  de  Villacourt,  taking  his  place  at  a  table  where 
two  of  the  Guards  were  seated. 

When  the  punch  was  brought  he  filled  the  three 
glasses,  pushed  one  before  each  of  the  Guards,  and 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"Your  health,  gentlemen!"  he  said,  and  then 
lifting  his  glass  he  continued:  "  You  are  military 

265 


Renee  Mauperin 


men — I  have  to  fight  to-morrow,  and  I  haven't  any 
one  I  can  ask.  I  feel  sure  that  you  will  act  as  sec- 
onds for  me." 

One  of  the  Guards  looked  full  at  M.  de  Villacourt, 
and  then  turned  to  his  comrade. 

"  We  may  as  well,  Gaillourdot;  what  do  you  say?  " 
The  other  did  not  reply,  but  picking  up  his  glass 
touched  M.  de  Villacourt's  with  it. 

"  Well  then,  to-morrow  morning  at  ten  o'clock. 
Room  27." 

"Right!"  answered  the  Guards. 

The  following  morning,  just  as  Denoisel  was  start- 
ing with  Dardouillet  to  call  on  M.  Boisjorand  de 
Villacourt,  his  door-bell  rang  and  the  two  Guards 
entered.  As  their  mission  was  to  accept  everything, 
terms,  weapons,  and  distances,  the  arrangements  for 
the  duel  were  soon  made.  Pistols  were  decided  upon 
at  a  distance  of  thirty-five  paces,  both  adversaries 
to  be  allowed  to  walk  ten  paces.  Denoisel  requested, 
in  Henri's  name,  that  the  affair  should  be  got  qyer 
as  quickly  as  possible.  This  was  precisely  what  M. 
de  Villacourt's  seconds  were  about  to  ask,  as  they 
were  supposed  to  be  going  to  the  theatre  that  even- 
ing, and  were  only  free  that  day  until  midnight. 
A  meeting  was  fixed  for  four  o'clock  at  the  Ville- 
d'Avray  Lake.  Denoisel  next  went  to  one  of  his 

266 


Renee  Mauperin 

friends  who  was  a  surgeon,  and  then  to  order  a  car- 
riage for  bringing  home  the  wounded  man.  He  called 
to  see  Henri,  who  was  out;  then  went  on  to  the 
shooting-gallery,  where  he  found  him,  amusing  him- 
self with  shooting  at  small  bundles  of  matches  hang- 
ing from  a  piece  of  string,  at  which  he  fired,  setting 
the  brimstone  alight  with  the  bullet. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing!"  he  said  to  Denoisel;  "I 
fancy  those  matches  get  set  on  fire  with  the  wind 
from  the  bullet;  but  look  here!  "  and  he  showed  him 
a  cardboard  target,  in  the  first  ring  of  which  he  had 
just  put  a  dozen  bullets. 

"  It's  to  be  to-day  at  four,  as  you  wished,"  said 
Denoisel. 

"  Good!  "  said  Henri,  giving  his  pistol  to  the  man. 
"  Look  here,"  he  continued,  putting  his  fingers  over 
two  holes  on  the  cardboard  which  were  rather  far 
away  from  the  others;  "  if  it  were  not  for  these  two 
flukes  this  would  be  fit  to  frame.  Oh,  I'm  glad  it's 
arranged  for  to-day."  He  lifted  his  arm  with  the 
gesture  of  a  man  accustomed  to  shooting  and  just 
about  to  take  aim,  and  then  shook  his  hand  about  to 
get  the  blood  into  it  again. 

"  Only  imagine/'  he  continued,  "  that  it  had  quite 
an  effect  on  me — the  idea  of  this  affair — when  I  was 
in  bed  this  morning.  It's  that  deuced  horizontal 
position;  I  don't  fancy  it's  good  for  one's  courage." 

They  all  lunched  together  at  Denoisel's  and  then 
267 


Renee  Mauperin 


proceeded  to  smoke.  Henri  was  cheerful  and  com- 
municative, talking  all  the  time.  The  surgeon  ar- 
rived at  the  hour  appointed,  and  they  all  four  got 
into  the  carriage  and  drove  off. 

They  had  been  silent  until  they  were  about  half 
way,  when  Henri  suddenly  threw  his  cigar  out  of  the 
window  impatiently. 

"  Give  me  a  cigar,  Denoisel,  a  good  one.  It's 
very  important  to  have  a  good  cigar  when  you  are 
going  to  shoot,  you  know.  If  you  are  to  shoot  prop- 
erly you  mustn't  be  nervous;  that's  the  principal 
thing.  I  took  a  bath  this  morning.  One  must  keep 
calm.  Now,  driving  is  the  most  detestable  thing;  the 
reins  saw  your  hand  for  you.  I'd  wager  you  couldn't 
shoot  straight  after  driving;  your  ringers  would  be 
stiff.  Novels  are  absurd  with  their  duels,  where  the 
man  arrives  and  flings  his  reins  to  his  groom.  What 
should  you  think  if  I  told  you  that  one  ought  to  go 
in  for  a  sort  of  training?  It's  quite  true,  though.  I 
never  knew  such  a  good  shot  as  an  Englishman  I 
once  met;  he  goes  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock;  never 
drinks  stimulants  and  takes  a  short  walk  every  even- 
ing like  my  father  does.  Every  time  that  I  have 
driven  in  a  carriage  without  springs  to  the  shooting- 
gallery,  my  targets  have  shown  it.  By-the-bye,  this 
is  a  very  decent  carriage,  Denoisel.  Well,  with  a 
cigar  it's  the  same  thing.  Now  a  cigar  that's  difficult 
to  smoke  keeps  you  at  work,  you  have  to  keep  lift- 

268 


Renee  Mauperin 

ing  your  hand  to  your  mouth,  and  that  makes  your 
hand  unsteady;  while  a  good  cigar — you  ask  any 
good  shot,  and  he'll  tell  you  the  same  thing — it's 
soothing,  it  puts  your  nerves  in  order.  There's  noth- 
ing better  than  the  gentle  movement  of  the  arm  as 
you  take  the  cigar  out  of  your  mouth  and  put  it  in 
again.  It's  slow  and  regular." 

On  arriving,  they  found  M.  de  Villacourt  and  his 
seconds  waiting  between  the  two  lakes.  The  ground 
was  white  with  the  snow  that  had  fallen  during  the 
morning.  In  the  woods  the  trees  stretched  their 
bare  branches  towards  the  sky,  and  in  the  distance 
the  red  sunset  could  be  seen  between  the  rows  of 
dark  trees.  They  walked  as  far  as  the  Montalet  road. 
The  distances  were  measured,  Denoisel's  pistols 
loaded,  and  the  opponents  then  took  their  places 
opposite  each  other.  Two  walking-sticks,  laid  on 
the  snow,  marked  the  limits  of  the  ten  paces  they 
were  each  allowed.  Denoisel  walked  with  Henri  to 
the  place  which  had  fallen  to  his  lot,  and  as  he  was 
pushing  down  a  corner  of  his  collar  for  him  which 
covered  his  necktie,  Henri  said  in  a  low  voice: 
"Thanks,  old  man;  my  heart's  beating  a  trifle  under 
my  armpit,  but  you'll  be  satisfied " 

M.  de  Villacourt  took  off  his  frock-coat,  tore  off 
his  necktie,  and  threw  them  both  some  distance  from 
him.  His  shirt  was  open  at  the  neck,  showing  his 

269 


Renee  Mauperin 


strong,  broad,  hairy  chest.  The  opponents  were 
armed,  and  the  seconds  moved  back  and  stood  to- 
gether on  one  side. 

"  Ready!  "  cried  a  voice. 

At  this  word  M.  de  Villacourt  moved  forward 
almost  in  a  straight  line.  Henri  kept  quite  still  and 
allowed  him  to  walk  five  paces.  At  the  sixth  he  fired. 

M.  de  Villacourt  fell  to  the  ground,  and  the  wit- 
nesses watched  him  lay  down  his  pistol  and  press  his 
thumbs  with  all  his  strength  on  the  double  hole 
which  the  bullet  had  made  on  entering  his  body. 

"Ah!  I'm  not  done  for — Ready,  monsieur!  "  he 
called  out  in  a  loud  voice  to  Henri,  who,  thinking 
all  was  over,  was  moving  away. 

M.  de  Villacourt  picked  up  his  pistol  and  pro- 
ceeded to  do  his  four  remaining  paces  as  far  as  the 
walking-stick,  dragging  himself  along  on  his  hands 
and  knees  and  leaving  a  track  of  blood  on  the  snow 
behind  him.  On  arriving  at  the  stick  he  rested  his 
elbow  on  the  ground  and  took  aim  slowly  and 
steadily. 

"Fire!  Fire!"  called  out  Dardouillet. 

Henri,  standing  still  and  covering  his  face  with 
his  pistol,  was  waiting.  He  was  pale,  and  there  was 
a  proud,  haughty  look  about  him.  The  shot  was 
fired;  he  staggered  a  second,  then  fell  flat,  with  his 
face  on  the  ground  and  with  outstretched  arms,  his 
twitching  fingers  grasping  for  a  moment  at  the  snow. 

270 


KKHI\'I> 


XXXIX 

M.  MAUPERIN  had  gone  out  into  the  garden  as 
he  usually  did  on  coming  downstairs  in  the  morning, 
when,  to  his  surprise,  he  saw  Denoisel  advancing  to 
meet  him. 

"You  here,  at  this  hour?"  he  said.  "Why, 
where  did  you  sleep?  " 

"  M.  Mauperin,"  said  Denoisel,*  pressing  his  hand 
as  he  spoke. 

"What  is  it?  What's  the  matter?"  asked  M. 
Mauperin,  feeling  that  something  had  happened. 

"  Henri  is  wounded." 

"Dangerously?     Is  it  a  duel?" 

Denoisel  nodded. 

"Wounded?     Ah,  he  is  dead!  " 

Denoisel  took  M.  Mauperin's  two  hands  in  his 
for  a  second,  without  uttering  a  word. 

"  Dead!  "  repeated  M.  Mauperin  mechanically,  and 
he  opened  his  hands  as  though  something  had  slipped 
from  their  grasp.  "His  poor  mother,  Henri!"  and 
the  tears  came  with  the  words.  "  Oh,  God —  We 
don't  know  how  much  we  love  them  till  this  comes — 

271 


Renee  Mauperin 


and  only  thirty  years  old!  "  He  sank  down  on  a  gar- 
den-seat, choked  with  sobs. 

"  Where  is  he?  "  he  asked  at  last. 

"  There,"  and  Denoisel  pointed  to  the  window  of 
Henri's  room. 

From  Ville-d'Avray  he  had  taken  the  corpse 
straight  to  M.  Dardouillet's,  and  during  the  evening 
had  found  a  pretext  for  sending  for  M.  Bernard,  who 
had  a  key  of  the  Mauperins'  house.  In  the  middle 
of  the  night,  while  the  family  were  asleep,  the  three 
men  had  taken  off  their  shoes,  carried  Henri's  dead 
body  upstairs,  and  laid  it  on  the  bed  in  his  own  room. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  M.  Mauperin,  and  making  a 
sign  to  him  that  he  could  not  talk  he  got  up. 

They  walked  round  the  garden  four  or  five  times 
in  silence.  The  tears  came  every  now  and  then  into 
M.  Mauperin's  eyes,  but  they  did  not  fall.  Words, 
too,  seemed  to  come  to  his  lips  and  die  away  again. 
Finally,  in  a  deep,  crushed  voice,  breaking  the  long 
silence  by  a  desperate  effort,  and  not  looking  at 
Denoisel,  M.  Mauperin  asked  an  abrupt  question. 

"  Was  it  an  honourable  death?  " 

V 

"  He  was  your  son,"  answered  Denoisel. 

The  father  lifted  his  head  at  these  words,  as  if 
strength  had  come  to  him  with  which  to  fight  against 
his  grief.  "  Well,  well ;  I  must  do  my  duty  now.  You 
have  done  your  part,"  and  he  drew  Denoisel  nearer 
to  him,  his  tears  falling  freely  at  last. 

272 


XL 

"  MURDER  is  the  name  for  affairs  of  this  kind," 
M.  Barousse  was  saying  to  Denoisel  as  they  followed 
the  hearse  to  the  cemetery.  "  Why  didn't  you  ar- 
range matters  between  them?  " 

"After  that  blow?" 

"  After  or  before,"  said  M.  Barousse,  perempto- 
rily. 

"  You'd  better  say  that  to  his  father!  " 

"  He's  a  soldier — but  you,  hang  it  all — you've 
never  served  in  the  army,  and  you  let  him  get  killed! 
I  consider  you  killed  him." 

"  Look  here,  I've  had  enough,  M.  Barousse." 

"  You  see,  I  reason  things  out;  I've  been  a  mag- 
istrate."— Barousse  had  been  a  judge  on  the  Board 
of  Trade. — "  You  have  the  law  courts  and  you  can 
demand  justice.  But  duels  are  contrary  to  all  laws, 
human  or  divine;  remember  that.  Why,  just  fancy 
— a  scoundrel  comes  and  gives  me  a  blow  in  the  face; 
and  he  must  needs  kill  me  as  well.  Ah,  I  can  promise 
you  one  thing:  if  ever  I'm  on  a  jury,  and  there's  a 
case  of  a  duel — well,  I  look  upon  it  as  murder.  Duel- 
*s  273 


Renee  Mauperin 

lists  are  assassins.  In  the  first  place  it's  a  cowardly 
thing " 

"  A  cowardly  thing  that  every  one  hasn't  the 
courage  to  carry  through,  M.  Barousse;  it's  like  sui- 
cide." 

"  Ah,  if  you  are  going  to  uphold  suicide,"  said 
Barousse,  and  leaving  the  discussion  he  continued  in 
a  softened  tone:  "Such  a  fine  fellow  too,  poor 
Henri!  And  then  Mauperin,  and  his  wife,  and  his 
daughter — the  whole  family  plunged  into  this  grief. 
No,  it  makes  me  wild  when  I  think  of  it.  Why,  I 
had  known  him  all  his  life."  Barousse  pulled  his 
watch  half  out  of  his  waistcoat-pocket  as  he  spoke. 
"There!"  he  said,  breaking  off  suddenly;  "I  know 
it  will  be  sold;  I  shall  have  missed  The  Concert,  a  su- 
perb proof,  earlier  than  the  one  with  the  dedication." 

Denoisel  returned  to  Briche  with  M.  Mauperin, 
who,  on  arriving,  went  straight  upstairs  to  his  wife. 
He  found  her  in  bed,  with  the  blinds  down  and  the 
curtains  drawn,  overwhelmed  and  crushed  by  her 
terrible  sorrow. 

Denoisel  opened  the  drawing-room  door  and  vsaw 
Renee,  seated  on  an  ottoman,  sobbing,  with  her  hand- 
kerchief up  to  her  mouth. 

"  Renee,"  he  said,  going  to  her  and  taking  her 
hands  in  his,  "  some  one  killed  him " 

Renee  looked  at  him  and  then  lowered  her  eyes. 
274 


Renee  Mauperin 


"That  man  would  never  have  known;  he  never 
read  anything  and  he  did  not  see  any  one;  he  lived 
like  a  regular  wolf;  he  didn't  subscribe  to  the  Mon- 
iteur,  of  course.  Do  you  understand?  " 

"  No/'  stammered  Renee,  trembling  all  over. 

"  Well,  it  must  have  been  an  enemy  who  sent  the 
paper  to  that  man.  Ah,  you  can't  understand  such 
cowardly  things;  but  that's  how  it  all  came  about, 
though.  One  of  his  seconds  showed  me  the  paper 
with  the  paragraph  marked " 

Renee  was  standing  up,  her  eyes  wide  open  with 
terror;  her  lips  moved  and  she  opened  her  mouth  to 
speak — to  cry  out:  "  I  sent  it!  " 

Then  all  at  once  she  put  her  hand  to  her  heart, 
as  if  she  had  just  been  wounded  there,  and  fell  down 
unconscious  and  rigid  on  the  carpet. 


275 


XLI 

DENOISEL  came  every  day  to  Briche  to  inquire 
about  Renee.  When  she  was  a  little  better,  he  was 
surprised  that  she  did  not  ask  for  him.  He  had 
always  been  accustomed  to  seeing  her  when  she  was 
not  well,  even  when  she  was  lying  down,  as  though 
he  had  been  one  of  the  family.  And  whenever  she 
had  been  ill,  he  was  always  one  of  the  first  she  had 
asked  for.  She  expected  him  to  entertain  and  amuse 
her,  to  enliven  her  during  her  convalescence  and  bring 
back  her  laughter.  He  was  offended  and  kept  away 
for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  when  he  came  again  he 
still  could  not  see  her.  One  day  he  was  told  that 
she  was  too  tired,  another  day  that  the  Abbe  Blam- 
poix  was  talking  to  her.  Finally,  at  the  end  of  a 
week,  he  was  allowed  to  see  her.  v 

He  expected  an  effusive  welcome,  such  as  invalids 
give  their  friends  when  they  see  them  again  for  the 
first  time.  He  thought  that  after  an  illness  she  would, 
in  her  impulsive  way,  be  almost  ready  to  embrace 
him.  Renee  held  out  her  hand  to  him  and  just  let 
her  fingers  lie  in  his  for  a  second;  she  said  a  few  words 

276 


Renee  Mauperin 

such  as  she  might  have  said  to  any  one,  and  after  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  closed  her  eyes  as  though  she 
were  sleepy.  This  coldness,  which  he  could  not  un- 
derstand in  the  least,  irritated  Denoisel  and  made  him 
feel  bitter.  He  was  deeply  hurt  and  humiliated,  as 
his  affection  for  Renee  was  pure  and  sincere  and  of 
such  long  standing.  He  tried  to  imagine  what  she 
could  possibly  have  against  him,  and  wondered 
whether  M.  Barousse  had  been  instilling  his  ideas 
into  her.  Was  she  blaming  him,  as  a  witness  of  the 
duel,  for  her  brother's  death?  Just  about  this  time 
one  of  his  friends  who  had  a  yacht  at  Cannes  invited 
him  for  a  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  he  accepted 
the  invitation  and  went  away  at  once. 

Renee  was  afraid  of  Denoisel.  She  only  remem- 
bered the  commencement  of  the  attack  that  she  had 
had  in  his  presence,  that  terrible  moment  which  had 
been  followed  by  her  fall  and  a  fit  of  hysterics.  She 
had  had  a  sensation  of  being-  suffocated  by  her  broth- 
er's blood,  and  she  knew  that  a  cry  had  come  to  her 
lips.  She  did  not  know  whether  she  had  spoken, 
whether  her  secret  had  escaped  her  while  she  was 
unconscious.  Had  she  told  Denoisel  that  she  had 
killed  Henri,  that  it  was  she  who  had  sent  that  news- 
paper? Had  she  confessed  her  crime? 

When  Denoisel  entered  her  room  she  imagined 
that  he  knew  all.  The  embarrassment  which  he  felt 
and  which  was  the  effect  of  her  manner  to  him,  his 

277 


Renee  Mauperin 


coldness,  which  was  entirely  due  to  her  own,  all  this 
confirmed  her  in  her  idea,  in  her  certainty  that  she 
had  spoken  and  that  it  was  a  judge  who  was  there 
with  her. 

Before  Denoisel's  visit  was  over,  her  mother 
got  up  to  go  out  of  the  room  a  minute,  but  Renee 
clung  to  her  with  a  look  of  terror  and  insisted  on 
her  staying.  It  occurred  to  her  that  she  might  de- 
fend herself  by  saying  that  it  was  a  fatality;  that  by 
sending  the  newspaper  she  had  only  meant  to  make 
the  man  put  in  his  claim;  that  she  had  wanted  to 
prevent  her  brother  from  getting  this  name  and  to 
make  him  break  off  his  engagement;  but  then  she 
would  have  been  obliged  to  say  why  she  had  wished 
to  do  this — why  she  had  wished  to  ruin  her  brother's 
future  and  prevent  him  from  becoming  a  rich  man. 
She  would  have  had  to  confess  all;  and  the  bare  idea 
of  defending  herself  in  such  a  way,  even  in  the  eyes 
of  the  man  she  respected  more  than  any  other,  horri- 
fied and  disgusted  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the 
least  she  could  do  would  be  to  leave  to  the  one  she 
had  killed  his  fair  fame  and  the  silence  of  death. 

She  breathed  freely  when  she  heard  of  Denoisel's 
departure,  for  it  seemed  to  her,  then,  as  though  her 
secret  were  her  own  once  more. 


278 


XLII 

RENEE  gradually  recovered  and  in  a  few  months' 
time  seemed  to  be  quite  well  again.  All  the  outward 
appearances  of  health  came  back  to  her,  and  she  had 
no  suffering  at  all.  She  did  not  even  feel  anything 
of  the  disturbance  which  illness  leaves  in  the  organs 
it  has  touched  and  in  the  life  it  has  just  attacked. 

All  at  once  the  trouble  began  again.  When  stie 
went  upstairs  or  walked  uphill  she  suddenly  felt  suffo- 
cated. Palpitation  became  more  frequent  and  more 
violent,  and  then  just  as  suddenly  all  this  would  stop 
again,  as  it  happens  sometimes  with  these  insidious 
diseases  which  at  intervals  seem  to  entirely  forget 
their  victims. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  weeks  the  doctor  from  Saint- 
Denis,  who  was  attending  Renee,  took  M.  Mauperin 
aside. 

"  I  don't  feel  satisfied  about  your  daughter,"  he 
said.  "  There  is  something  not  quite  clear  to  me. 
I  should  like  to  have  a  consultation  with  a  specialist. 
These  heart  affections  are  very  treacherous  some- 
times." 

279 


Renee  Mauperin 


"Yes,  these  heart  affections — you  are  quite 
right,"  stammered  M.  Mauperin. 

He  could  not  find  anything  else  to  say.  His 
former  notions  of  medicine,  the  desperate  doctrines 
of  the  old  school,  Corvisart,  the  epigraph  in  his 
famous  book  on  the  subject  of  heart  affections: 
"  Hceret  lateri  lethalis  arundo";  all  these  things  came 
suddenly  back  to  his  mind,  clearly  and  distinctly.  He 
could  see  the  pages  again  of  those  books  so  full  of 
terror. 

"  You  see,"  the  doctor  went  on,  "  the  great 
danger  of  these  diseas'es  is  that  they  are  so  often  of 
long  standing.  People  send  for  us  when  the  disease 
has  made  great  headway.  There  are  symptoms  that 
the  patient  has  not  even  noticed.  Your  daughter 
must  have  been  very  impressionable  always,  from  her 
very  childhood,  I  should  say;  isn't  that  so?  Torrents 
of  tears  for  the  least  blame,  her  face  on  fire  for  nothing 
at  all,  and  then  her  pulse  beating  a  hundred  a  minute, 
a  constant  state  of  emotion  with  her,  very  excitable, 
tempers  like  convulsions,  always  slightly  feverish. 
She  would  put  a  certain  amount  of  passion  into  every- 
thing, I  should  say,  into  her  friendship,  her  games, 
her  likes  and  dislikes;  am  I  not  right?  Oh  yes,  this  is 
generally  the  way  with  children  in  whom  this  organ 
predominates  and  who  have  an  unfortunate  predis- 
position to  hypertrophy.  Tell  me  now,  has  she  lately 
had  any  great  emotion — any  great  grief?  " 

280 


Renee  Mauperin 

"  Yes,  oh  yes;  her  brother's  death." 

"  Her  brother's  death.  Ah  yes,  there  was  that," 
said  the  doctor,  not  appearing  to  attach  any  great 
importance,  nevertheless,  to  this  information.  "  I 
meant  to  ask  you,  though,  whether  she  had  been 
crossed  in  love,  for  instance."  , 

"  She?  Crossed  in  love?  Oh,  good  heavens!  " 
and  M.  Mauperin  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  half 
joining  his  hands  looked  up  in  the  air. 

"  Well,  I'm  only  asking  you  that  for  the  sake  of 
having  my  conscience  clear.  Accidents  of  this  kind 
only  develop  the  germ  that  is  already  there  and 
hasten  on  the  disease.  The  physical  influence  of 
the  passions  on  the  heart  is  a  theory —  It  has 
been  studied  a  great  deal  the  last  twenty  years;  and 
quite  right,  too,  in  my  opinion.  The  thesis  that  the 
heart  is  lacerated  in  a  burst  of  temper,  in  any  great 
moral " 

M.  Mauperin  interrupted  him: 

"  Then,  a  consultation — you  fancy — you  think— > 
don't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  M.  Mauperin,  that  will  be  quite  the  best 
thing.  You  see,  it  will  be  more  satisfactory  for 
every  one;  for  you,  and  for  me.  We  should  call  in  M. 
Bouillaud,  I  suppose.  He  is  considered  the  first 
authority." 

"Yes — M.  Bouillaud,"  repeated  M.  Mauperin, 
mechanically  nodding  his  head  in  assent. 

281 


XLIII 

IT  was  just  five  minutes  past  twelve,  and  M. 
Mauperin  was  seated  by  Renee's  bed,  holding  her 
two  hands  in  his.  Renee  glanced  at  the  time-piece. 

"  He'll  be  here  soon,"  said  M.  Mauperin. 

Renee  answered  by  closing  her  eye-lids  gently, 
and  her  breathing  and  the  beating  of  her  heart  could 
be  heard  like  the  ticking  of  a  watch  in  the  silence 
of  the  room  at  night. 

Suddenly  a  peal  of  the  door-bell  rang  out,  clearly 
and  imperiously,  vibrating  through  the  house.  It 
seemed  to  M.  Mauperin  as  though  it  had  been  rung 
within  him,  and  a  shudder  passed  through  him  to 
his  very  finger-tips  like  a  needle-prick.  He  went  to 
the  door  and  opened  it. 

"  It  is  some  one  who  rang  by  mistake,  sir,"  said 
the  servant-man. 

"  It's  very  warm,"  said  M.  Mauperin  to  his  daugh- 
ter as  he  took  his  seat  again,  looking  very  pale. 

Five  minutes  later  the  servant  knocked.  The 
doctor  was  waiting  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Ah! "  said  M.  Mauperin,  getting  up  once  more. 
282 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Go  to  him,"  murmured  Renee,  and  then  calling1 
him  back,  she  asked,  looking  alarmed:  "  Is  he  going 
to  examine  me?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  I  don't  think  so.  There'll  be  no 
need,  perhaps,"  answered  M.  Mauperin,  playing  with 
the  knob  of  the  door. 

M.  Mauperin  had  fetched  the  doctor  and  left  him 
with  his  daughter.  He  was  in  the  drawing-room 
waiting  the  result.  He  had  walked  up  and  down, 
taken  a  seat,  and  gazed  mechanically  at  a  flower  on 
the  carpet,  and  had  then  gone  to  the  window  and 
was  tapping  with  his  fingers  on  the  pane. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  though  everything  within 
himself  and  all  round  had  suddenly  stopped.  He  did 
not  know  whether  he  had  been  there  an  hour  or  a 
minute.  It  was  one  of  those  moments  in  life  for  him, 
the  measure  and  duration  of  which  cannot  be  cal- 
culated. He  felt  as  though  he  were  living  again 
through  his  whole  existence,  and  as  though  all  the 
emotions  of  a  lifetime  were  crowded  into  a  moment 
that  was  eternal. 

He  turned  dizzy,  like  a  man  in  a  dream  falling 
from  a  height  and  enduring  the  anguish  of  falling. 
All  kinds  of  indistinct  ideas,  of  confused  anxieties  and 
vague  terrors,  seemed  to  rise  from  the  pit  of  his 
stomach  and  buzz  round  his  temples.  Yesterday, 
to-day,  to-morrow,  the  doctor,  his  daughter,  her  ill- 

283 


Renee  Mauperin 


ness,  all  this  whirled  round  in  his  head,  perplexing 
him,  mingled  as  it  all  was  with  a  physical  sensation 
of  uneasiness,  anxiety,  fear,  and  dread.  Then  all  at 
once  one  idea  became  distinct.  He  had  one  of  those 
clear  visions  that  cross  the  mind  at  such  times.  He 
saw  the  doctor  with  his  ear  pressed  against  his  daugh- 
ter's back  and  he  listened  with  him.  He  thought  he 
heard  the  bed  creak  as  it  does  when  any  one  turns 
on  it.  It  was  over,  they  would  be  coming  now;  but 
no  one  came.  He  began  pacing  up  and  down  again, 
as  he  could  not  keep  still.  He  grew  irritable  with 
impatience  and  thought  the  doctor  was  a  very  long 
time,  but  the  next  minute  he  said  to  himself  that  it 
was  a  good  sign,  that  a  great  specialist  would  not 
relish  wasting  his  time,  and  that  if  there  had  been 
nothing  he  could  do,  he  would  already  have  been 
back.  Fresh  hope  came  to  him  with  this  thought: 
his  daughter  was  saved;  when  the  doctor  came  in  he 
should  see  by  his  face  that  his  daughter  was  saved. 
He  watched  the  door,  but  no  one  came.  Then  he 
began  to  say  to  himself  that  they  would  have  to  take 
precautions,  that  perhaps  she  would  always  be  deli- 
cate, that  there  were  plenty  of  people  who  went  on 
living  in  spite  of  palpitation  of  the  heart.  Then  the 
word,  the  terrible  word,  death,  came  to  him  and 
haunted  him.  He  tried  to  drive  it  away  by  thinking 
over  and  over  again  the  same  thoughts  about  con- 
valescence, getting  well,  and  good  health.  He  went 

284 


Renee  Mauperin 


over  in  his  mind  all  the  persons  he  had  known,  who 
had  been  ill  a  long  time,  and  who  were  not  dead. 
And  yet  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  the  same  question 
kept  coming  back  to  him:  "  What  would  the  doctor 
tell  him?  " 

He  repeated  this  over  and  over  again  to  him- 
self. It  seemed  to  him  as  though  this  visit  were 
never  going  to  finish  and  never  would  finish.  And 
then  at  times  he  would  shudder  at  the  idea  of  seeing 
the  door  open.  He  would  have  liked  to  remain  as 
he  was  forever,  and  never  know.  Finally  hope  came 
back  to  him  once  more,  just  as  the  door  opened. 

"  Well?  "  said  M.  Mauperin  to  the  doctor  as  he 
entered  the  room. 

"  You  must  be  brave,"  said  the  doctor. 

M.  Mauperin  looked  up,  glanced  at  the  doctor, 
moved  his  lips  without  uttering  a  word — his  mouth 
was  dry  and  parched. 

The  doctor  began  to  explain  in  full  his  daughter's 
disease,  its  gravity,  the  complications  that  were  to 
be  feared:  he  then  wrote  out  a  long  prescription, 
saying  to  M.  Mauperin  at  each  item: 

"  You  understand?  " 

"Perfectly!"  answered  M.  Mauperin,  looking 
stupefied. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  little  girl,  you  are  going  to  get 
well! " 

285 


Renee  Mauperin 


These  were  M.  Mauperin's  words  to  his  daughter 
when  he  went  back  to  her  room. 

"Really?"  she  asked. 

"  Kiss  me." 

"What  did  he  tell  you?" 

"  Well,  you  need  only  look  at  my  face  to  know 
what  he  said,"  answered  M.  Mauperin,  smiling  at  her. 
He  felt  as  though  it  would  kill  him,  though,  that 
smile;  and  turning  away  under  the  pretence  of  look- 
ing for  his  hat,  he  continued,  "  I  must  go  to  Paris  to 
get  the  prescription  made  up." 


286 


XLIV 

AT  the  railway  station  M.  Mauperin  saw  the  doc- 
tor getting  into  the  train.  He  got  into  another 
compartment,  as  he  did  not  feel  as  though  he 
had  the  strength  to  speak  to  him  or  even  look  at 
him. 

On  arriving  in  Paris  he  went  to  a  chemist's  and 
was  told  that  it  would  take  three  hours  to  make  up 
the  prescription.  "  Three  hours!  "  he  exclaimed,  but 
at  heart  he  was  glad  that  it  would  be  so  long.  It 
would  give  him  some  time  before  returning  to  the 
house.  When  once  he  was  in  the  street  he  walked 
fast.  He  had  no  consecutive  ideas,  but  a  sort  of 
heavy,  ceaseless  throbbing  in  his  head  like  the  throb 
of  neuralgia.  His  sensations  were  blunted,  as  though 
he  were  in  a  stupor.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  legs 
of  people  walking  and  the  wheels  of  the  carriages 
turning  round.  His  head  felt  heavy  and  at  the  same 
time  empty.  As  he  saw  other  people  walking,  he 
walked  too.  The  passers-by  appeared  to  be  taking  him 
with  them,  and  the  crowd  to  be  carrying  him  along 
in  its  stream.  Everything  looked  faint,  indistinct, 

287 


Renee  Mauperin 


and  of  a  neutral  tint,  as  things  do  the  day  after  any 
wild  excitement  or  intoxication.  The  light  and  noise 
of  the  streets  he  seemed  to  see  and  hear  in  a  dream. 
He  would  not  have  known  there  was  any  sun  if  it 
had  not  been  for  the  white  trousers  the  policemen 
were  wearing,  which  had  caught  his  eye  several 
times. 

It  was  all  the  same  to  him  whether  he  went  to 
the  right  or  left.  He  neither  wanted  anything  nor 
had  he  the  energy  to  do  anything.  He  was  surprised 
to  see  the  movement  around  him — people  who  were 
hurrying  along,  walking  quickly,  on  their  way  to 
something.  He  had  had  neither  aim  nor  object  in 
life  for  the  last  few  hours.  It  seemed  to  him  as 
though  the  world  had  come  to  an  end,  as  though  he 
were  a  dead  man  in  the  midst  of  the  life  and  activity 
of  Paris.  He  tried  to  think  of  anything  in  all  that 
might  happen  to  a  man  capable  of  moving  him,  of 
touching  him  in  any  way,  and  he  could  not  conceive 
of  anything  which  could  reach  to  the  depths  of  his 
-  despair. 

Sometimes,  as  though  he  were  answering  inquiries 
about  his  daughter,  he  would  say  aloud,  "  Oh,  yes, 
she  is  very  ill!  "  and  it  was  as  though  the  words  he 
had  uttered  had  been  said  by  some  one  else  at  his 
side.  Often  a  work-girl  without  any  hat,  a  pretty 
young  girl  with  a  round  waist,  gay  and  healthy  with 
the  rude  health  of  her  class,  would  pass  by  him.  He 

288 


Renee  Mauperin 

would  cross  the  street  that  he  might  not  see  her 
again.  He  was  furious  just  for  a  minute  with  all 
these  people  who  passed  him,  with  all  these  useless 
lives.  They  were  not  beloved  as  his  daughter  was, 
and  there  was  no  need  for  them  to  go  on  living.  He 
went  into  one  of  the  public  gardens  and  sat  down. 
A  child  put  some  of  its  little  sand-pies  on  to  the 
tails  of  his  coat;  other  children  getting  bolder  ap- 
proached him  with  all  the  daring  of  sparrows. 
Presently,  feeling  slightly  embarrassed,  they  left 
their  little  spades,  stopped  playing  and  stood  round, 
looking  shyly  and  sympathetically,  like  so  many 
men  and  women  in  miniature,  at  this  tall  gentle- 
man who  was  so  sad.  M.  Mauperin  rose  and  left 
the  garden. 

His  tongue  was  furred  and  his  throat  dry.  He 
went  into  a  cafe,  and  opposite  him  was  a  little  girl 
wearing  a  white  jacket  and  a  straw  hat.  Her  frock 
was  short,  showing  her  little  firm,  bare  legs  with 
their  white  socks.  She  was  moving  about  all  the 
time,  climbing  and  jumping  on  to  her  father  and 
standing  straight  up  on  his  knees.  She  had  a  little 
cross  round  her  neck.  Every  few  minutes  her  father 
begged  her  to  keep  still. 

M.  Mauperin  closed  his  eyes;  he  could  see  his 
own  little  daughter  just  as  she  had  been  at  six  years 
old.  Presently  he  opened  a  review,  The  Illustration, 
and  bent  over  it,  trying  to  make  himself  look  at  the 

289  Vol.  12— K 


Renee  Mauperin 

pictures,  and  when  he  reached  the  last  page  he  set 
himself  to  find  out  one  of  the  enigmas. 

When  M.  Mauperin  lifted  his  head  again  he  wiped 
his  face  with  his  handkerchief.  He  had  made  out 
the  enigma:  "Against  death  there  is  no  appeal." 


290 


XLV 

THE  terrible  existence  of  those  who  have  given 
up  hope,  and  who  can  only  wait,  now  commenced 
for  M.  Mauperin;  that  life  of  anguish,  fear  and  trem- 
bling, of  despair  and  of  constant  shocks,  when  every 
one  is  listening  and  on  the  watch  for  death;  that  life 
when  one  is  afraid  of  any  noise  in  the  house,  and 
just  as  afraid  of  silence,  afraid  of  every  movement  in 
the  next  room,  afraid  of  the  sound  of  voices  drawing 
near,  afraid  to  hear  a  door  close,  and  afraid  of  seeing 
the  face  of  the  person  who  opens  the  door  when  one 
enters  the  house,  and  of  whom  one  asks  without 
speaking  if  the  beloved  one  still  lives. 

As  people  frequently  do  when  cursing  their  sick 
friends,  he  began  to  reproach  himself  bitterly.  He 
made  his  sorrow  still  harder  to  bear  by  making  him- 
self believe  that  it  was  partly  his  own  fault,  that  every- 
thing had  not  been  done  which  ought  to  have  been, 
that  she  might  have  been  saved  if  only  there  had  been 
a  consultation  earlier,  if  at  a  certain  time,  a  certain 
month  or  day,  he  had  only  thought  of  something 
or  other. 

At  night  his  restlessness  in  bed  seemed  to  make 
291 


Renee  Mauperin 


his  grief  more  wild  and  feverish.  In  the  solitude,  the' 
darkness,  and  the  silence,  one  thought,  one  vision, 
was  with  him  all  the  time — his  daughter,  always  his 
daughter.  His  anxiety  worked  on  his  imagination, 
his  dread  increased,  and  his  wakefulness  had  all  the 
intensity  of  the  terrible  sensation  of  nightmare.  In 
the  morning  he  was  afraid  to  wake  up,  and  just  as  a 
man,  when  half-awake,  will  instinctively  turn  over 
from  the  light,  so  he  would  do  his  utmost  to  fall 
asleep  again,  to  drive  away  his  first  thoughts,  not  to 
remember  anything  and  so  escape  for  a  moment 
longer  from  the  full  consciousness  of  the  present. 

Then  the  day  came  again  with  all  its  torments, 
and  the  father  was  obliged  to  control  his  feelings,  to 
conquer  himself,  to  be  gay  and  cheerful,  to  reply  to 
the  smiles  of  the  suffering  girl,  to  answer  her  pitiful 
attempts  to  be  gay,  and  to  keep  up  her  feeble  illu- 
sions, her  clinging  to  the  future,  with  some  of  those 
heart-rending  wyds  of  comfort  with  which  dying 
people  will  delude  themselves,  asking  as  they  so  often 
do  for  hope  from  those  who  are  with  them. 

She  would  say  to  him,  sometimes,  in  that  feeble, 
soft  whisper  peculiar  to  invalids  and  which  dies  away 
to  a  whisper,  "  How  nice  it  would  be  to  have  no  pain! 
I  can  tell  you,  I  shall  enjoy  life  as  soon  as  I  get 
quite  well." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  he  would  answer,  choking  down 
his  tears. 

292 


XLVI 

SICK  people  are  apt  to  believe  that  there  are 
places  where  they  would  be  better,  countries  which 
would  cure  them.  There  are  certain  spots  and  mem- 
ories which  come  back  to  their  mind  and  seem  to 
fascinate  them  as  an  exile  is  fascinated  by  his  native 
land,  and  which  lull  them  as  a  child  is  lulled  to  rest 
in  its  cradle.  Just  as  a  child's  fears  are  calmed  in 
the  arms  of  its  nurse,  so  their  hopes  fly  to  a  country, 
a  garden,  or  a  village  where  they  were  born  and 
where  surely  they  could  not  die. 

Renee  began  to  think  of  Morimond.  She  kept 
saying  to  herself  that  if  she  were  once  there  she 
should  get  well.  She  felt  sure,  quite  sure  of  it. 
This  Briche  house  had  brought  her  bad  luck.  She 
had  been  so  happy  at  Morimond!  And  with  this 
longing  for  change,  the  wish  to  move  about  which 
invalids  get,  this  fancy  of  hers  grew,  and  became  more 
and  more  persistent.  She  spoke  of  it  to  her  father 
and  worried  him  about  it.  It  would  not  make  any 
difference  to  any  one,  she  pleaded,  the  refinery  would 
go  along  by  itself,  and  M.  Bernard,  his  manager,  was 

293 


Renee  Mauperin 

trustworthy  and  would  see  to  everything,  and  then 
they  could  come  back  in  the  autumn. 

"  When  shall  we  start,  father  dear? "  she  kept 
saying,  getting  more  and  more  impatient  every  day. 

M.  Mauperin  gave  in  at  last.  His  daughter  prom- 
ised him  so  faithfully  that  she  would  get  well  at  Mori- 
mond  that  he  began  to  believe  it  himself.  He  im- 
agined that  this  sick  fancy  was  an  inspiration. 

"  Yes,  the  country  will  perhaps  do  her  good," 
said  the  doctor,  accustomed  to  these  whims  of  dying 
people,  who  fancy  that  by  going  farther  away  they 
will  succeed  in  throwing  death  off  their  track. 

M.  Mauperin  promptly  arranged  his  business  mat- 
ters, and  the  family  started  for  Morimond. 

The  pleasure  of  setting  off,  the  excitement  of  the 
journey,  the  nervous  force  that  all  this  gives  even  to 
people  who  have  no  strength  at  all,  the  breeze  coming 
in  by  the  open  window  of  the  railway  carriage  kept 
the  invalid  up  as  far  as  Chaumont.  She  reached 
there  without  being  overfatigued.  M.  Mauperin  let 
her  rest  a  day,  and  the  following  morning  hired 
the  best  carriage  he  could  get  in  the  town  and  they 
all  set  out  once  more  for  Morimond.  The  road  was 
bad  and  the  journey  was  disagreeable  and  long.  It 
began  to  get  warm  at  nine  o'clock,  and  by  eleven 
the  sun  scorched  the  leather  of  the  carriage.  The 
horses  breathed  hard,  perspired,  and  went  along  with 
difficulty.  Mme.  Mauperin  was  leaning  back  against 

294 


Renee  Mauperin 


the  front  cushion  and  dozing.  M.  Mauperin,  seated 
next  his  daughter,  held  a  pillow  at  her  back,  against 
which  she  fell  after  every  little  jolt.  Every  now  and 
then  she  asked  the  time,  and  when  she  was  told  she 
would  murmur,  "No  later  than  that!" 

Towards  three  o'clock  they  were  getting  quite 
near  their  destination;  the  sky  was  cloudy,  there  was 
less  dust,  and  it  was  cooler  altogether.  A  water- 
wagtail  began  to  fly  in  front  of  the  carriage  about 
thirty  paces  at  a  time,  rising  from  the  little  heaps 
of  stones.  There  were  elm-trees  all  along  the  road 
and  some  of  the  fields  were  fenced  round.  Renee 
seemed  to  revive  as  one  does  in  one's  natal  air.  She 
sat  up  and,  leaning  against  the  door  with  her  chin  on 
her  hand  as  children  do  when  in  a  carriage,  she  looked 
out  at  everything.  It  was  as  though  she  were  breath- 
ing in  all  she  saw.  As  the  carriage  rolled  along,  she 
said: 

"  Ah,  the  big  poplar-tree  at  the  Hermitage  is 
broken.  The  little  boys  used  to  fish  for  leeches  in 
this  pool — oh,  there  are  M.  Richet's  rooks!" 

In  the  little  wood  near  the  village  her  father  had 
to  get  out  and  pluck  a  flower  for  her,  which  he  could 
not  see  and  which  she  pointed  out  to  him  growing 
on  the  edge  of  the  ditch,. 

The  carriage  passed  by  the  little  inn,  the  first 
houses,  the  grocer's,  the  blacksmith's,  the  large  wal- 
nut-tree, the  church,  the  watchmaker's,  who  was  also 

295 


Renee  Mauperin 


a  dealer  in  curiosities,  and  the  Pigeau  farm.  The 
villagers  were  out  in  the  fields.  Some  children  who 
were  tormenting  a  wet  cat  stopped  to  see  the  carriage 
drive  past.  An  old  man,  seated  on  a  bench  in  front 
of  his  cottage  door,  with  a  woollen  shawl  wrapped 
round  him  and  shivering  in  spite  of  the  sun,  lifted 
his  cap.  Then  the  horses  stopped,  the  carriage  door 
was  opened,  and  a  man  who  was  waiting  in  front  of 
the  lodge  lifted  Mile.  Mauperin  up  in  his  arms. 

"  Oh,  our  poor  young  lady;  she's  no  heavier  than 
a  feather!  "  he  said. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Chretiennot — how  do  you  do, 
comrade?  "  said  M.  Mauperin,  shaking  hands  with 
the  old  gardener,  who  had  served  under  him  in  his 
regiment. 


296 


XLVII 

THE  next  day  and  the  days  which  followed,  Renee 
had  the  most  delicious  waking  moments,  when  the 
light  which  was  just  breaking,  the  morning  of  the 
earth  and  sky,  mingled — in  the  dawn  of  her  thoughts 
— with  the  morning  of  her  life.  Her  first  memories 
came  back  to  her  with  the  first  songs  outdoors.  The 
young  birds  woke  up  in  their  nests,  awakening  her 
childhood. 

Supported  and  indeed  almost  carried  by  her  father, 
she  insisted  on  seeing  everything  again — the  garden, 
the  fruit-trees  on  the  walls,  the  meadow  in  front  of 
the  house,  the  shady  canals,  the  pool  with  its  wide 
sheet  of  still  water.  She  remembered  all  the  trees 
and  the  garden  paths  again,  and  they  seemed  to  her 
like  the  things  one  gradually  recalls  of  a  dream.  Her 
feet  found  the  way  along  paths  which  she  used  to 
know  and  which  were  now  grown  over  with  trees. 
The  ruins  seemed  as  many  years  older  to  her  as  she 
was  older  since  she  had  last  seen  them.  She  remem- 
bered certain  places  on  the  grass  where  she  had  seen 
the  shadow  of  her  frock  when  as  a  child  she  had  been 

297 


Renee  Mauperin 


running  there.  She  found  the  spot  where  she  had 
buried  a  little  dog.  It  was  a  white  one,  named 
Nicolas  Bijou.  She  had  loved  it  dearly,  and  she  could 
remember  her  father  carrying  it  about  in  the  kitchen 
garden  after  it  had  been  washed. 

There  were  hundreds  of  souvenirs,  too,  for  her  in 
the  house.  Certain  corners  in  the  rooms  had  the 
same  effect  on  her  as  toys  that  have  been  stored  away 
in  a  garret,  and  that  one  comes  across  years  after. 
She  loved  to  hear  the  sound  of  the  mournful  old 
weather-cock  on  the  house-top,  which  had  always 
soothed  her  fears  and  lulled  her  to  sleep  as  a 
child. 

She  appeared  to  rouse  up  and  to  revive.  The 
change,  her  natal  air,  and  these  souvenirs  seemed 
to  do  her  good.  This  improvement  lasted  some 
weeks. 

One  morning,  her  father,  who  was  with  her  in  the 
garden,  was  watching  her.  She  was  amusing  herself 
with  cutting  away  the  old  roses  in  a  clump  of  white 
rose-bushes.  The  sunshine  made  its  way  through 
the  straw  of  her  large  hat,  and  the  brilliancy  of  the 
light  and  the  softness  of  the  shade  rested  on  her  thin 
little  face.  She  moved  about  gaily  and  briskly  from 
one  rose-tree  to  another,  and  the  thorns  caught  hold 
of  her  dress  as  though  they  wanted  to  play  with  her. 
At  every  clip  of  her  scissors,  from  a  branch  covered 
with  small,  open  roses,  with  pink  hearts  all  full  of 

298 


Renee  Mauperin 


life,  there  fell  a  dead  earth-coloured  rose  which  looked 
to  M.  Mauperin  like  the  corpse  of  a  flower. 

All  at  once,  leaving  everything,  Renee  flung  her- 
self into  her  father's  arms. 

"  Oh,  papa,  how  I  do  love  you! "  she  said,  burst- 
ing into  tears. 


299 


XLVIII 

FROM  that  day  the  improvement  began  to  dis- 
appear again.  She  gradually  lost  the  healthy  colour 
which  life's  last  kiss  had  brought  to  her  cheeks.  She 
no  longer  had  that  delightful  restlessness  of  the  con- 
valescent, that  longing  to  move  about  which  only  a 
short  time  ago  had  made  her  take  her  father's  arm 
constantly  for  a  stroll.  No  more  gay  words  sprang 
from  her  mind  to  her  lips,  as  they  had  done  at  first 
when  she  had  forgotten  for  a  time  all  suffering;  there 
was  no  more  of  the  happy  prattle  which  had  been 
the  result  of  returning  hope.  She  was  too  languid 
to  talk  or  even  to  answer  questions. 

"  No,  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  me — I  am 
all  right; "  but  the  words  fell  from  her  lips  with  an 
accent  of  pain,  sadness,  and  resignation.  v 

She  suffered  from  tightness  of  breath  now,  and 
constantly  felt  a  weight  on  her  chest,  which  her  respi- 
ration had  difficulty  in  lifting.  A  sort  of  constraint 
and  vague  discomfort,  caused  by  this,  made  itself 
felt  throughout  her  whole  system,  attacking  her 
nerves,  taking  from  her  all  vital  energy  and  all  in- 

300 


Renee  Mauperin 


clination  to  move  about,  keeping  her  crushed  and 
submissive,  without  any  strength  to  fight  against  it 
or  to  do  anything. 

Her  father  persuaded  her  to  try  the  effect  of  a 
cupping-glass. 


XLIX 

SHE  took  off  her  shawl  in  that  slow  way  peculiar 
to  invalids,  so  slow  that  it  seems  painful.  Her  trem- 
bling fingers  felt  about  for  the  buttons  that  she  had 
to  unfasten,  her  mother  helped  her  to  take  off  the 
flannel  and  cotton-wool  in  which  she  was  wrapped, 
leaving  her  poor  thin  neck  and  arms  bare. 

She  looked  at  her  father,  at  the  lighted  candle,  the 
twisted  paper  and  the  wine-glasses,  with  that  dread 
that  one  feels  on  seeing  the  hot  irons  or  fire  being 
prepared  for  torturing  one's  flesh. 

"  Am  I  right  like  this? "  she  asked,  trying  to 
smile. 

"  No,  you  want  to  be  in  this  position,"  answered 
M.  Mauperin,  showing  her  how  to  sit. 

She  turned  round  on  her  arm-chair,  put  her^two 
hands  on  the  back  of  it  and  her  cheek  down  on  her 
hand,  pulled  her  legs  up,  crossed  her  feet,  and,  half- 
kneeling  and  half-crouching,  only  showed  the  profile 
of  her  frightened  face  and  her  bare  shoulders.  She 
looked  ready  for  the  coffin  with  her  bony  angles. 
Her  hair,  which  was  very  loose,  glided  with  the 

302 


Renee  Mauperin 


shadow  down  the  hollow  of  her  back.  Her  shoulder- 
blades  projected,  the  joints  of  her  spine  could  be 
counted,  and  the  point  of  a  poor  thin  little  elbow 
appeared  through  the  sleeves  of  her  under-linen,  which 
had  fallen  to  the  bend  of  her  arm. 

"  Well,  father?  " 

He  was  standing  there,  riveted  to  the  spot,  and 
he  did  not  even  know  of  what  he  was  thinking. 
At  the  sound  of  his  daughter's  voice  he  picked  up  a 
glass,  which  he  remembered  belonged  to  a  set  he  had 
bought  for  a  dinner-party  in  honour  of  Renee's  bap- 
tism. He  lighted  a  piece  of  paper,  threw  it  into  the 
glass,  and  closed  his  eyes  as  he  turned  the  glass  over. 
Renee  gave  a  little  hiss  of  pain,  a  shudder  ran  through 
all  the  bones  down  her  back,  and  then  she  said: 

"  Oh,  well;  I  thought  it  would  hurt  me  much 
more  than  that." 

M.  Mauperin  took  his  hand  from  the  glass  and  it 
fell  to  the  ground;  the  cupping  had  not  succeeded. 

"  Give  me  another,"  he  said  to  his  wife. 

Mme.  Mauperin  handed  it  to  him  in  a  leisurely 
way. 

"  Give  it  me,"  he  said,  almost  snatching  it  from 
her.  His  forehead  was  wet  with  perspiration,  but 
he  no  longer  trembled.  This  time  the  vacuum  was 
made:  the  skin  puckered  up  all  round  the  glass  and 
rose  inside  as  though  it  were  being  drawn  by  the 
scrap  of  blackened  paper. 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Oh,  father!  don't  bear  on  so,"  said  Renee,  who 
had  been  holding  her  lips  tightly  together;  "  take 
your  hand  off." 

"  Why,  I'm  not  touching  it — look,"  said  M.  Mau- 
perin, showing  her  his  hands. 

Renee's  delicate  white  skin  rose  higher  and  higher 
in  the  glass,  turning  red,  patchy,  and  violet.  When 
once  the  cupping  was  done  the  glass  had  to  be  taken 
away  again,  the  skin  drawn  to  the  edge  on  one  side 
of  the  glass,  and  then  the  glass  swayed  backward  and 
forward  from  the  other  side.  M.  Mauperin  was 
obliged  to  begin  again,  two  or  three  times  over,  and 
to  press  firmly  on  the  skin,  near  as  it  was  to  the 
bones. 


3C4 


DISEASE  does  its  work  silently  and  makes  secret 
ravages  in  the  constitution.  Then  come  those  ter- 
rible outward  changes  which  gradually  destroy  the 
beauty,  efface  the  personality,  and,  with  the  first 
touches  of  death,  transform  those  we  love  into  liv- 
ing corpses. 

Every  day  M.  Mauperin  sought  for  something  in 
his  daughter  which  he  could  not  find — something 
which  was  no  longer  there.  Her  eyes,  her  smile,  her 
gestures,  her  footstep,  her  very  dress  which  used 
proudly  to  tell  of  her  twenty  years,  the  girlish  vivacity 
which  seemed  to  hover  round  her  and  light  on  others 
as  it  passed — everything  about  her  was  changing  and 
life  itself  gradually  leaving  her.  She  no  longer  seemed 
to  animate  all  that  she  touched.  Her  clothes  fell 
loosely  round  her  in  folds  as  they  do  on  old  people. 
Her  step  dragged  along,  and  the  sound  of  her  little 
heels  was  no  longer  heard.  When  she  put  her  arms 
round  her  father's  neck,  she  joined  her  hands  awk- 
wardly, her  caresses  had  lost  their  pretty  gracefulness. 
All  her  gestures  were  stiff,  she  moved  about  like  a 

305 


Renee  Mauperin 


person  who  feels  cold  or  who  is  afraid  of  taking  up 
too  much  space.  Her  arms,  which  were  generally 
hanging  down,  now  looked  like  the  wet  wings  of  a 
bird.  She  scarcely  even  resembled  her  old  self.  And 
when  she  was  walking  in  front  of  her  father,  with  her 
bent  back,  her  shrunken  figure,  her  arms  hanging 
loosely  at  her  sides,  and  her  dress  almost  falling  off 
her,  it  seemed  to  M.  Mauperin  that  this  could  not  be 
his  daughter,  and  as  he  looked  at  her  he  thought  of 
the  Renee  of  former  days. 

There  was  a  shadow  round  her  mouth  that  seemed 
to  go  inside  when  she  smiled.  The  beauty  spot  on 
her  hand,  just  by  her  little  finger,  had  grown  larger, 
and  was  as  black  as  though  mortification  had  set  in. 


306 


LI 

"  MOTHER,  it's  Henri's  birthday  to-day." 
"  Yes,   I   know,"   said   Mme.   Mauperin  without 
moving. 

"  Suppose  we  were  to  go  to  church?  " 
Mme.  Mauperin  rose  and  went  out  of  the  room, 
returning  very  soon  with  her  bonnet  and  cape  on. 
Half  an  hour  later  M.  Mauperin  was  helping  his 
daughter  out  of  the  carriage  at  the  Maricourt  church- 
door.  Renee  went  to  the  little  side-chapel,  where  the 
marble  altar  stood  on  which  was  the  little  miraculous 
black  wooden  Virgin  to  which  she  had  prayed  with 
great  awe  as  a  child.  She  sat  down  on  a  bench  which 
was  always  there  and  murmured  a  prayer.  Her  mother 
stood  near  her,  looking  at  the  church  and  not  praying 
at  all.  Renee  then  got  up  and,  without  taking  her 
father's  arm,  walked  with  a  step  that  scarcely  faltered 
right  through  the  church  to  a  little  side  door  leading 
into  the  cemetery. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  whether  that  was  still  there," 
she  said  to  her  father,  pointing  to  an  old  bouquet  of 
artificial  flowers  among  the  crosses  and  wreaths  which 
were  hung  on  the  tomb. 

307 


Renee  Mauperin 


"Come,  my  child,"  said  M.  Mauperin;  "don't 
stand  too  long.  Let  us  go  home  again  now." 

"  Oh,  there's  plenty  of  time." 

There  was  a  stone  seat  under  the  porch  with  a 
ray  of  sunshine  falling  on  it. 

"  It's  warm  here,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on 
the  stone.  "  Put  my  shawl  there  so  that  I  can  sit 
down  a  little.  I  shall  have  the  sun  on  my  back — 
there." 

"  It  isn't  wise,"  said  M.  Mauperin. 

"  Oh,  just  to  make  me  happy."  When  she 
was  seated  and  leaning  against  him,  she  mur- 
mured in  a  voice  as  soft  as  a  sigh,  "  How  gay  it  is 
here." 

The  lime-trees,  buzzing  with  bees,  were  stirring 
gently  in  the  faint  wind.  A  few  fowl  in  the  thick 
grass  were  running  about,  pecking  and  looking  for 
food.  At  the  foot  of  a  wall,  by  the  side  of  a  plough 
and  cart,  the  wheels  of  which  were  white  with  dry 
mud,  on  the  stumps  of  some  old  trees  with  the  bark 
peeled  off,  some  little  chickens  were  frolicking  about, 
and  some  ducks  were  asleep,  looking  like  balls*  of 
feathers.  There  seemed  to  be  a  murmur  of  hushed 
voices  from  the  church,  and  the  light  played  on  the 
blue  of  the  stained-glass  windows.  Flights  of  pigeons 
kept  starting  up  and  taking  refuge  in  the  niches  of 
sculpture  and  in  the  holes  between  the  old  grey 
stones.  The  river  could  be  seen  and  its  splashing 

308 


Renee  Mauperin 


sound  heard;  a  wild  white  colt  bounded  along  to  the 
water's  edge. 

"Ah!"  said  Renee  after  a  few  moments,  "we 
ought  to  have  been  made  of  something  else.  Why 
did  God  make  us  of  flesh  and  blood?  It's  frightful!  " 

Her  eyes  had  fallen  on  some  soil  turned  up  in  a 
corner  of  the  cemetery,  half  hidden  by  two  barrel- 
hoops  crossed  over  each  other  and  up  which  wild 
convolvulus  was  growing. 


309 


LII 

RENEE'S  complaint  did  not  make  her  cross  and 
capricious,  nor  did  it  cause  her  any  of  that  nervous 
irritability  so  common  to  invalids,  and  which  makes 
those  who  are  nursing  them  share  their  suffering 
morally.  She  gave  herself  entirely  up  to  her  fate. 
Her  life  was  ebbing  away  without  any  apparent  effort 
on  her  part  to  hold  it  back  or  to  stop  it  in  its  course. 
She  was  still  affectionate  and  gentle.  Her  wishes 
had  none  of  the  unreasonableness  of  dying  fancies. 
The  darkness  which  was  gathering  round  her  brought 
peace  with  it.  She  did  not  fight  against  death,  but 
let  it  come  like  a  beautiful  night  closing  over  her 
white  soul. 

There  were  times,  however,  when  Nature  asserted 
itself  within  her,  when  her  mind  faltered  from  she*er 
bodily  weakness,  and  when  she  listened  to  the  stealthy 
progress  of  the  disease  which  was  gradually  detaching 
her  from  her  hold  on  life.  At  such  times  she  would 
maintain  a  profound  silence  and  would  be  terribly 
calm,  remaining  for  a  long  time  mute  and  motionless 
almost  like  a  dead  person.  She  would  pass  half  the 

310 


Renee  Mauperin 


day  in  this  way  without  even  hearing  the  clock  strike, 
gazing  before  her  just  beyond  her  feet  with  a  steady, 
fixed  gaze  and  seeing  nothing  at  all.  Her  father 
could  not  even  catch  the  expression  of  her  eyes  at 
such  times.  Her  long  lashes  would  quiver  two  or 
three  times,  and  she  would  hide  her  eyes  by  letting 
the  lids  droop  over  them,  and  it  seemed  to  him  then 
as  though  she  were  asleep  with  her  eyes  half  open. 
He  would  talk  to  her,  search  his  brains  for  something 
that  might  interest  her,  and  endeavour  to  make  jokes, 
so  that  she  should  hear  him  and  feel  that  he  was  there; 
but  in  the  middle  of  his  sentence  his  daughter's  atten- 
tion, her  thoughts,  and  her  intelligent  look  would 
leave  him.  He  no  longer  felt  the  same  warmth  in  her 
affection,  and  when  he  was  with  her  he  himself  felt 
chilled  now.  It  seemed  as  if  disease  were  robbing 
him  day  by  day  of  a  little  more  of  his  daughter's 
heart. 


3» 


LIII 

SOMETIMES,  too,  Renee  would  let  a  few  words  slip, 
showing  that  she  was  mourning  her  fate  as  sick  peo- 
ple do,  words  which  sink  to  the  heart  and  give  one 
a  chill  like  death  itself. 

One  day  her  father  was  reading  the  newspaper  to 
her;  she  took  it  from  him  to  look  at  the  marriage 
announcements. 

" Twenty-nine  1  How  old  she  was,  wasn't  she?" 
she  said,  as  though  speaking  to  herself.  She  had  been 
glancing  down  the  death  column.  M.  Mauperin  did 
not  answer;  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room  for  a 
few  minutes  and  then  went  away. 

When  Renee  was  alone  she  got  up  to  close  the 
door,  which  her  father  had  not  pulled  to,  and  which 
kept  banging.  She  fancied  she  heard  a  groan  in  the 
corridor  and  looked,  but  there  was  no  one  there;  she 
listened  a  minute;  but  as  everything  was  silent  again 
she  was  just  going  to  close  the  door,  when  she 
thought  she  heard  the  same  sound  again.  She  went 
out  into  the  corridor  as  far  as  her  father's  room.  It 
was  from  there  that  it  came.  The  key  was  not  in 

312 


Renee  Mauperin 

the  lock,  and  Renee  stooped  down  and,  through 
the  keyhole,  saw  her  father,  who  had  flung  himself 
on  his  bed,  weeping  bitterly  and  shaken  with  sobs. 
His  head  was  buried  in  the  pillow,  and  he  was 
endeavouring  to  stifle  down  his  tears  and  his  de- 
spair. 


LIV 

RENE"E  was  determined  that  her  father  should 
weep  no  more  on  her  account. 

"  Listen  to  me,  papa,"  she  said,  the  following 
morning.  "We  are  going  to  leave  here  at  the  end 
of  September;  that's  settled,  isn't  it?  We  are  going 
everywhere,  a  month  to  one  place  and  a  fortnight  to 
another — just  as  we  fancy.  Well,  I  want  you  to  take 
me  now  to  all  the  places  where  you  fought.  Do  you 
know,  I've  heard  that  you  fell  in  love  with  a  princess? 
Suppose  we  were  to  come  across  her  again,  what 
should  you  say  to  that?  Wasn't  it  at  Pordenone  that 
you  got  those  great  scars?"  And,  taking  her  father's 
face  in  her  two  hands,  she  pressed  her  lips  to  the 
white,  hollow  places  which  had  been  marked  by  the 
finger  of  Glory. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  about  everything,"  she 
continued;  "  it  will  be  ever  so  nice  to  go  all  through 
your  campaigns  again  with  your  daughter.  If  one 
winter  will  not  be  enough  for  it  all,  why,  we'll  just 
take  two.  And  when  I'm  quite  myself  again — we  are 
quite  rich  enough  surely,  Henriette  and  I;  you've 

314 


Renee  Mauperin 

worked  hard  enough  for  us — well,  we'll  just  sell  the 
refinery,  and  we'll  all  come  here.  We'll  go  to  Paris 
for  two  months  of  the  year  to  enjoy  ourselves;  that 
will  be  quite  enough,  won't  it?  Then  as  you  always 
like  to  have  something  to  do,  you  can  take  your  farm 
again  from  Tetevuide's  son-in-law.  We'll  have  some 
cows  and  a  nice  farm-yard  for  mamma — do  you  hear, 
mamma?  I  shall  be  outdoors  all  day;  and  the  end 
of  it  will  be  that  I  shall  get  too  well — you'll  see.  And 
then  we'll  have  people  to  visit  us  all  the  time.  In  the 
country  we  can  allow  ourselves  that  little  luxury — 
that  won't  ruin  us — and  we  shall  be  as  happy,  as 
happy — you'll  see." 

Travelling  and  plans  of  all  kinds — she  talked  of 
nothing  but  the  future  now.  She  spoke  of  it  as  of  a 
promised  thing,  a  certainty.  It  was  she,  now,  who 
made  every  one  hopeful,  and  she  concealed  the  fact 
that  she  was  dying  so  skilfully  and  pretended  so  well 
that  she  wanted  to  live,  that  M.  Mauperin  on  seeing 
her  and  listening  to  her  dreams,  gave  himself  up  to 
dreaming  with  her  of  years  which  they  had  before 
them  and  which  would  be  full  of  peace,  tranquility, 
and  happiness.  Sometimes,  even,  the  illusions  that 
the  invalid  had  invented  herself  dazzled  her  too,  for 
an  instant,  and  she  would  begin  to  believe  in  her  own 
fiction,  forget  herself  for  a  moment  and,  quite  de- 
ceived like  the  others,  she  would  say  to  herself,  "  Sup- 
pose, after  all,  that  I  should  get  well!"  At  other 

315 


Renee  Mauperin 


times  she  would  delight  in  going  back  to  the  past. 
She  would  tell  about  things  that  had  happened,  about 
her  own  feelings,  funny  incidents  that  she  remem- 
bered, or  she  would  talk  about  her  childish  pleasures. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  risen  from  her  death-bed 
to  embrace  her  father  for  the  last  time  with  all  she 
could  muster  of  her  youth. 

"  Oh,  my  first  ball-dress,"  she  said  to  him  one 
day;  "  I  can  see  it  now — it  was  a  pink  tulle  one.  The 
dressmaker  didn't  bring  it — it  was  raining — and  we 
couldn't  get  a  cab.  How  you  did  hurry  along!  And 
how  queer  you  looked  when  you  came  back  carrying 
a  cardboard  box!  And  you  were  so  wet  when  you 
kissed  me!  I  remember  it  all  so  well." 

Renee  had  only  herself  and  her  own  courage  to 
depend  on,  in  her  task  of  keeping  her  father  up  and 
herself  too.  Her  mother  was  there,  of  course;  but 
ever  since  Henri's  death  she  had  been  buried  in  a 
sort  of  silent  apathy.  She  was  indifferent  to  all  that 
went  on,  mute  and  absent-minded.  She  was  there 
with  her  daughter,  night  and  day,  without  a  murmur, 
patient  and  always  even-tempered,  ready  to  do  any- 
thing, as  docile  and  humble  as  a  servant,  but  her 
affection  seemed  almost  mechanical.  The  soul  had 
gone  out  of  her  caresses,  and  all  her  ministrations 
were  for  the  body  rather  than  the  heart;  there  was 
nothing  of  the  mother  about  her  now  except  the 
hands. 

316 


LV 

RENEE  could  still  drag  along  with  her  father  to 
the  first  trees  of  the  little  wood  near  the  house.  She 
would  then  sink  down  with  her  back  against  the  moss 
of  an  oak-tree  on  the  boundary  of  the  wood.  The 
smell  of  hay  from  the  fields,  an  odour  of  grass  and 
honey  came  to  her  there  with  a  delicious  warmth 
from  the  sunshine,  the  fresh  air  from  the  wood,  damp 
from  the  cool  springs  and  the  unmade  paths. 

In  the  midst  of  the  deep  silence,  an  immense, 
indistinct  rustling  could  be  heard,  and  a  hum  and 
buzz  of  winged  creatures,  which  filled  the  air  with  a 
ceaseless  sound  like  that  of  a  bee-hive  and  the  infinite 
murmur  of  the  sea.  All  around  Renee,  and  near  to 
her,  there  seemed  to  be  a  great  living  peace,  in  which 
everything  was  being  swayed — the  gnat  in  the  air,  the 
leaf  on  the  branch,  the  shadows  on  the  bark  of  the 
trees,  the  tops  of  the  trees  against  the  sky,  and  the 
wild  oats  on  each  side  of  the  paths.  Then  from  this 
murmur  came  the  sighing  sound  of  a  deep  respira- 
tion, a  breeze  coming  from  afar  which  made  the  trees 
tremble  as  it  passed  them,  while  the  blue  of  the 

317 


Renee  Mauperin 

heavenly  vault  above  the  shaking  leaves  seemed 
fixed  and  immovable.  The  boughs  swayed  slowly  up 
and  down,  a  breath  passed  over  Renee's  temples  and 
touched  her  neck,  a  puff  of  wind  kissed  and  cheered 
her.  Gradually  she  began  to  lose  all  consciousness 
of  her  physical  being,  the  sensation  and  fatigue  of 
living;  an  exquisite  languor  took  possession  of  her, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  were  partially 
freed  from  her  material  body  and  were  just  ready  to 
pass  away  in  the  divine  sweetness  of  all  these  things. 
Every  now  and  then  she  nestled  closer  to  her  father 
like  a  child  who  is  afraid  of  being  carried  away  by  a 
gust  of  wind. 

There  was  a  stone  bench  covered  with  moss  in 
the  garden.  After  dinner,  towards  seven  o'clock, 
Renee  liked  to  sit  there;  she  would  put  her  feet  up, 
leaning  her  head  against  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  with 
a  trail  of  convolvulus  tickling  her  ear  she  would  stay 
there,  looking  up  at  the  sky.  It  was  just  at  the  time 
of  those  beautiful  summer  days  which  fade  away  in 
silvery  evenings.  Imperceptibly  her  eyes  and  her 
thoughts  were  fascinated  by  the  infinite  whiteness  of 
the  sky,  just  ready  to  die  away.  As  she  watched  she 
seemed  to  see  more  brilliancy  and  light  coming  from 
this  closing  day,  a  more  dazzling  brightness  and 
serenity  seemed  to  fall  upon  her.  Gradually  some 
great  depths  opened  in  the  heavens,  and  she  fancied 
she  could  see  millions  of  little  starry  flames  as  pale 


Renee  Mauperin 

as  the  light  of  tapers,  trembling  with  the  night 
breeze.  And  then,  from  time  to  time,  weary  of 
gazing  into  that  dazzling  brightness  which  kept  re- 
ceding, blinded  by  those  myriads  of  suns,  she  would 
close  her  eyes  for  an  instant  as  though  shrinking  from 
that  gulf  which  was  hanging  over  her  and  drawing 
her  up  above. 


319 


LVI 

"  MOTHER,"  she  said,  "  don't  you  see  how  nice 
I  look?  Just  see  all  the  trouble  I've  taken  for  you;  " 
and  joining  her  hands  over  her  head,  her  dress  loose 
at  the  waist,  she  sank  down  on  the  pillows  full  length 
on  the  sofa  in  a  careless,  languid  attitude  which  was 
both  graceful  and  sad  to  see.  Renee  thought  that 
the  bed  and  the  white  sheets  made  her  look  ill.  She 
would  not  stay  there,  and  gathered  together  all  her 
remaining  strength  to  get  up.  She  dressed  slowly 
and  heroically  towards  eleven  o'clock,  taking  a  long 
time  over  it,  stopping  to  get  breath,  resting  her  arms 
over  and  over  again,  after  holding  them  up  to  do 
her  hair.  She  had  thrown  a  fichu  of  point-lace  over 
her  head,  and  was  wearing  a  dressing-gown  of  starched 
white  pique,  with  plenty  of  material  in  it,  falling  in 
wide  pleats.  Her  small  feet  were  incased  in  low 
shoes,  and  instead  of  rosettes  she  wore  two  little 
bunches  of  violets  which  Chretiennot  brought  her 
every  morning.  In  order  to  look  more  alive,  as 
invalids  do  when  they  are  up  and  dressed,  she  would 

320 


Renee  Mauperin 

stay  there  all  day  in  this  white  girlish  toilette  fra- 
grant with  violets. 

"  Oh,  how  odd  it  is  when  one  is  ill!  "  she  said, 
looking  down  at  herself  and  then  all  round  the  room. 
"  I  don't  like  anything  that  is  not  pretty  now,  just 
fancy!  I  couldn't  wear  anything  ugly.  Do  you 
know  I've  thought  of  something  I  want.  You  re- 
member the  little  silver-mounted  jug — so  pretty  it 
was — we  saw  it  in  a  jeweller's  shop  in  the  Rue  Saint 
Honore  when  we  had  just  gone  out  of  the  theatre 
for  the  interval.  If  it  isn't  sold — if  he  still  has  it,  you 
might  let  him  send  it.  Oh,  I  know  I'm  getting  the 
most  ruinous  tastes — I  warn  you  of  that.  I  want  to 
arrange  things  here.  I'm  getting  very  difficult  to 
please;  in  everything  I  have  the  most  luxurious  ideas. 
I  used  not  to  be  at  all  elegant  in  my  tastes;  and  now 
I  have  eyes  for  everything  I  wear,  and  for  everything 
all  round  me— oh,  such  eyes!  There  are  certain  col- 
ours that  positively  pain  me — just  fancy — and  others 
that  I  had  never  noticed  before.  It  is  being  ill  that 
makes  me  like  this — it  must  be  that.  It's  so  ugly  to 
be  ill;  and  so  it  makes  you  like  everything  that  is 
beautiful  all  the  more." 

With  all  this  coquetry  which  the  approach  of 
death  had  brought  to  her,  these  fancies  and  caprices, 
these  little  delicacies  and  elegancies,  other  senses  too 
seemed  to  come  to  Renee.  She  was  becoming,  and 
she  felt  herself  becoming,  more  of  a  woman.  Under 

321  Vol.  i2-L 


Renee  Mauperin 


all  the  languor  and  indolence  caused  by  illness,  her 
disposition,  which  had  always  been  affectionate  but 
somewhat  masculine  and  violent,  grew  gentler,  more 
unbending,  and  more  calm.  Gradually  the  ways, 
tastes,  inclinations,  and  ideas — all  the  signs  of  her 
sex,  in  fact — made  their  appearance  to  her.  Her 
mind  seemed  to  undergo  the  same  transformation. 
She  gave  up  her  impetuous  way  of  criticising  and  her 
daring  speech.  Occasionally  she  would  use  one  of 
her  old  expressions,  and  then  she  would  say,  smiling, 
"  That  is  a  bit  of  the  old  Renee  come  back."  She 
remembered  speeches  she  had  made,  bold  things  she 
had  done,  and  her  familiar  manner  with  young  men; 
she  would  no  longer  dare  to  act  and  speak  as  in  those 
old  days.  She  was  surprised,  and  did  not  know  her- 
self in  her  new  character.  She  had  given  up  reading 
serious  or  amusing  books;  she  only  cared  now  for 
works  which  set  her  thinking,  books  with  ideas. 
When  her  father  talked  to  her  about  hunting  and  the 
meets  to  which  she  had  been  and  of  those  in  store  for 
her,  it  gave  her  the  sensation  of  being  about  to  fall, 
and  the  very  idea  of  mounting  a  horse  frightened  her. 
All  the  emotions  and  weaknesses  that  she  felt  were 
quite  new  to  her.  Flowers  about  which  she  had  never 
troubled  much  were  now  as  dear  to  her  as  persons. 
She  had  never  liked  needlework,  and  now  that  she 
had  started  to  embroider  a  skirt,  she  enjoyed  doing 
it.  She  quite  roused  up  and  lived  over  again  in  the 

322 


Renee  Mauperin 


memories  of  her  early  girlhood.  She  thought  of  the 
children  with  whom  she  used  to  play,  of  the  friends 
she  had  had,  of  different  places  to  which  she  had  been, 
and  of  the  faces  of  the  girls  in  the  same  row  with  her 
at  her  confirmation. 


323 


LVII 

As  she  was  looking  out  of  the  window  one  day, 
she  saw  a  woman  sit  down  in  the  dust  in  the  middle 
of  the  village  street,  between  a  stone  and  a  wheel-rut, 
and  unswathe  her  little  baby.  The  child  lay  face 
downward,  the  upper  part  of  its  body  in  the  shade, 
moving  its  little  legs,  crossing  its  feet,  and  kicking 
about,  and  the  sun  caressed  it  lovingly  as  it  does  the 
bare  limbs  of  a  child.  A  few  rays  that  played  over  it 
seemed  to  strew  on  its  little  feet  some  of  the  rose 
petals  of  a  Fete-Dieu  procession.  When  the  mother 
and  child  had  gone  away  Renee  still  went  on  gazing 
out  of  the  window. 


324 


LVIII 

"  You  see,"  she  said  to  her  father,  "  I  never  could 
fall  in  love;  you  made  me  too  hard  to  please.  I 
always  knew  beforehand  that  no  one  could  ever  love 
me  as  you  did.  I  saw  so  many  things  come  into 
your  face  when  I  was  there,  such  happiness!  And 
when  we  went  anywhere  together,  weren't  you  proud 
of  me!  Oh!  weren't  you  just  proud  to  have  me  lean- 
ing on  your  arm!  It  would  have  been  all  no  good 
for  any  one  else  to  have  loved  me;  I  should  never 
have  found  any  one  like  my  own  father;  you  spoiled 
me  too  much." 

"  But  all  that  won't  prevent  my  dear  little  girl  one 
of  these  fine  days,  when  she  gets  well,  finding  a 
handsome  young  man " 

"  Oh,  your  handsome  young  man  is  a  long  way 
off  yet,"  said  Renee,  a  smile  lighting  up  her  eyes. 
"  It  seems  strange  to  you,"  she  went  on,  "  doesn't  it, 
that  I  have  never  seemed  anxious  to  marry.  Well, 
I  tell  you,  it  is  your  own  fault.  Oh,  I'm  not  sorry 
in  the  least.  What  more  did  I  want?  Why,  I  had 
everything;  I  could  not  imagine  any  other  happiness. 
I  never  even  thought  of  such  a  thing.  I  didn't  want 

325 


Renee  Mauperin 


any  change.  I  was  so  well  off.  What  could  I  have 
had,  now,  more  than  I  already  had?  My  life  was  so 
happy  with  you;  and  I  was  so  contented.  Yes,"  she 
went  on,  after  a  minute's  silence,  "  if  I  had  been  like 
so  many  girls,  if  I  had  had  parents  who  were  cold 
and  a  father  not  at  all  like  you;  oh  yes,  I  should 
certainly  have  done  as  other  girls  do,  I  should  have 
wanted  to  be  loved,  I  should  have  thought  about 
marriage  as  they  do.  Then,  too,  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  all,  I  should  have  had  hard  work  to  fall  in  love; 
it  was  never  much  in  my  way,  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
and  it  always  made  me  laugh.  Do  you  remember 
before  Henriette's  marriage,  when  her  husband  was 
making  love  to  her?  How  I  did  tease  them!  'Bad 
child! '  do  you  remember,  that  was  what  they  used 
to  call  me.  Oh,  I've  had  my  fancies,  like  every  one 
else;  dreamy  days  when  I  used  to  go  about  building 
castles  in  the  air.  One  wouldn't  be  a  woman  with- 
out all  that.  But  it  was  only  like  a  little  music  in 
my  mind;  it  just  gave  me  a  little  excitement.  It 
all  came  and  went  in  my  imagination;  but  I  never 
had  any  special  man  in  my  mind,  oh  never.  And 
then,  too,  when  once  I  came  out  of  my  room,  it  was 
all  over.  As  soon  as  ever  any  one  was  there,  I  only 
had  my  eyes;  I  thought  of  nothing  but  watching 
everything  so  that  I  could  laugh  afterward — and  you 
know  how  your  dreadful  daughter  could  watch. 

They  would  have  had  to " 

326 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Monsieur,"  said  Chretiennot,  opening  the  door, 
M.  Magu  is  downstairs;  he  wants  to  know  if  he  can 
see  mademoiselle." 

"  Oh,  father,"  said  Renee,  beseechingly,  "  no  doc- 
tor to-day,  please.  I  don't  feel  inclined.  I'm  very 
well.  And  then,  too,  he  snorts  so;  why  does  he  snort 
like  that,  father?  " 

M.  Mauperin  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  she  went  on,  "  it's  the  effect  of 
driving  about  in  a  gig  on  his  rounds  in  the  winter. 
As  both  his  hands  are  occupied,  one  with  the  reins 
and  the  other  with  the  whip,  he's  got  into  the  way 
of  not  using  his  handkerchief " 


327 


LIX 

"  Is  the  sky  blue  all  over,  father?  Look  out  and 
tell  me,  will  you?  "  said  Renee,  one  afternoon,  as  she 
lay  on  the  sofa. 

"  Yes,  my  child,"  answered  M.  Mauperin  from 
the  window,  "  it  is  superb." 

"Oh!" 

"  Why?     Are  you  in  pain?  " 

"  No,  only  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  must  be 
clouds — as  though  the  weather  were  going  to  change. 
It's  very  odd  when  one  is  ill,  it  seems  as  if  the  sky 
were  much  nearer.  Oh,  I'm  a  capital  barometer 
now."  And  she  went  on  reading  the  book  she  had 
laid  down  while  she  spoke. 

"You  tire  yourself  with  reading,  little  girl;  let 
us  talk  instead.  Give  it  me,"  and  M.  Mauperin  held 
out  his  hand  for  the  book,  which  she  slipped  from 
her  fingers  into  his.  On  opening  it,  M.  Mauperin 
noticed  some  pages  that  he  had  doubled  down  some 
years  before,  telling  her  not  to  read  them,  and  these 
forbidden  pages  were  still  doubled  down. 

Renee  appeared  to  be  sleepy.  The  storm  which 
328 


Renee  Mauperin 


was  not  yet  in  the  sky  had  already  begun  to  weigh 
on  her.  She  felt  a  most  unbearable  heaviness  which 
seemed  to  overwhelm  her,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
nervous  uneasiness  took  possession  of  her.  The  elec- 
tricity in  the  air  was  penetrating  her  and  working 
on  her. 

A  great  silence  had  suddenly  come  over  every- 
thing, as  though  it  had  been  chased  from  the  horizon, 
and  the  breath  of  solemn  calm  passing  over  the  coun- 
try filled  her  with  immense  anxiety.  She  looked  at 
the  clock,  did  not  speak  again,  but  kept  moving  her 
hands  about  from  place  to  place. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  M.  Mauperin,  "  there  is  a  cloud, 
really,  a  big  cloud  over  Fresnoy.  How  it  is  moving 
along!  Ah,  it's  coming  over  on  to  our  side — it's  com- 
ing. Shall  I  shut  everything  up — the  window  and 
the  shutters,  and  light  up?  Like  that  my  big  girl 
won't  be  so  frightened." 

"  No,"  said  Renee,  quickly,  "  no  lights  in  the  day- 
time— no,  no!  And  then,  too,"  she  went  on,  "  I'm 
not  afraid  of  it  now." 

"  Oh,  it  is  some  distance  off  yet,"  said  M.  Mau- 
perin, for  the  sake  of  saying  something.  His  daugh- 
ter's words  had  called  up  a  vision  of  lighted  tapers 
in  this  room. 

"  Ah,  there's  the  rain,"  said  Renee,  in  a  relieved 
tone.  "  It's  like  dew,  that  rain  is.  It's  as  if  we  were 
drinking  it,  isn't  it?  Come  here — near  me." 

329  • 


Renee  Mauperin 


Some  large  drops  came  down,  one  by  one,  at  first. 
Then  the  water  poured  from  the  sky,  as  it  does  from  a 
vase  that  has  been  upset.  The  storm  broke  over 
Morimond  and  the  thunder  rolled  and  burst  in  peals. 
The  country  round  was  all  fire  and  then  all  dark. 
And  at  every  moment  in  the  gloomy  room,  lighted  up 
with  pale  gleams,  the  flashes  would  suddenly  cover 
the  reclining  figure  of  the  invalid  from  head  to  foot, 
throwing  over  her  whole  body  a  shroud  of  light. 

There  was  one  last  peal  of  thunder,  so  loud  and 
which  burst  so  near,  that  Renee  threw  her  arms  round 
her  father's  neck  and  hid  her  face  against  him. 

"  Foolish  child,  it's  over  now,"  said  M.  Mauperin; 
and  like  a  bird  which  lifts  its  head  a  little  from  under 
its  wing,  she  looked  up,  keeping  her  arms  round  him. 

"  Ah,  I  thought  we  were  all  dead!  "  she  said,  with 
a  smile  in  which  there  was  something  of  a  regret. 


330 


LX 

ONE  morning  on  going  to  see  Renee,  who  had 
had  a  bad  night,  M.  Mauperin  found  her  in  a  doze.  At 
the  sound  of  his  footstep  she  half  opened  her  eyes 
and  turned  slightly  towards  him. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  papa,"  she  said,  and  then  she  mur- 
mured something  vaguely,  of  which  M.  Mauperin 
only  caught  the  word  "  journey." 

"  What  are  you  saying  about  a  journey? "  he 
asked. 

"  Yes,  it's  as  though  I  had  just  come  back  from 
far  away — from  very  far  away — from  countries  I  can't 
remember."  And  opening  her  eyes  wide,  with  her 
two  hands  flat  out  on  the  sheet,  she  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  recall  where  she  had  been,  and  from  whence 
she  had  just  come.  A  confused  recollection,  an  indis- 
tinct memory  remained  to  her  of  stretches  and  spaces 
of  country,  of  vague  places,  of  those  worlds  and 
limbos  to  which  sick  people  go  during  those  last 
nights  which  are  detaching  them  from  earth,  and 
from  whence  they  return,  surprised,  with  the  dizziness 
and  stupor  of  the  Infinite  still  upon  them,  as  if  in 


Renee  Mauperin 


the  dream  they  have  forgotten  they  had  heard  the 
first  flapping  of  the  wings  of  Death. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing,"  she  said  after  a  minute's 
silence,  "  it's  just  the  effect  of  the  opium — they  gave 
me  some  last  night  to  make  me  sleep."  And  mov- 
ing as  though  to  shake  off  her  thoughts,  she  said 
to  her  father,  "  Hold  the  little  glass  for  me,  will 
you,  so  that  I  can  make  myself  look  nice?  Higher 
up — oh,  these  men — how  awkward  they  are,  to  be 
sure." 

She  put  her  thin  hands  through  her  hair  to  fluff 
it  up  and  pulled  her  lace  into  its  place  again. 

"  There  now,"  she  said,  "  talk  to  me.  I  want  to 
be  talked  to,"  and  she  half  closed  her  eyes  while  her 
father  talked. 

"You  are  tired,  Renee;  I'll  leave  you,"  said  M. 
Mauperin,  seeing  that  she  did  not  appear  to  be 
listening. 

"  No,  I  have  a  touch  of  pain.  Talk  to  me,  though; 
it  makes  me  forget  it." 

"  But  you  are  not  listening  to  me.  Come  now, 
what  are  you  thinking  about,  my  dear  little  girl?  v 

"  I'm  not  thinking  about  anything.  I  was  trying 
to  remember.  Dreams,  you  know — it  isn't  really 
like  that — it  was — I  don't  remember.  Ah!" 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  with  a  pang  of  sharp  pain. 

"  Does  it  hurt  you,  Renee?  " 

She  did  not  answer,  and  M.  Mauperin  could  not 
332 


Renee  Mauperin 


help  his  lips  moving,  as  he  looked  up  with  an  ex- 
pression of  revolt. 

"  Poor  father,"  said  Renee,  after  a  few  minutes. 
"  You  see  I'm  resigned.  No,  we  ought  not  to  be 
so  angry  with  pain.  It  is  sent  to  us  for  some  reason. 
We  are  not  made  to  suffer  simply  for  the  sake  of  suf- 
fering." 

And  in  a  broken  voice,  stopping  continually  to  get 
breath,  she  began  talking  to  him  of  all  the  good  sides 
of  suffering,  of  the  wells  of  tenderness  it  opens  up 
in  us,  of  the  delicacy  of  heart,  and  the  gentleness  of 
character  that  it  gives  to  those  who  accept  its  bitter- 
ness without  allowing  themselves  to  get  soured  by  it. 

She  spoke  to  him  of  all  the  meannesses  and  the 
pettinesses  that  go  away  from  us  when  we  suffer;  of 
the  tendency  to  sarcasm  which  leaves  us,  and  the 
unkind  laughter  which  we  restrain;  of  the  way  in 
which  we  give  up  finding  pleasure  in  other  people's 
little  miseries,  and  of  the  indulgence  that  we  have 
for  every  one. 

"  If  you  only  knew,"  she  said,  "  what  a  stupid 
thing  wit  seems  to  me  now."  And  M.  Mauperin 
heard  her  expressing  her  gratitude  to  suffering  as  a 
proof  of  election.  She  spoke  of  selfishness  and  of  all 
the  materiality  in  which  robust  health  wraps  us  up;  of 
that  hardness  of  heart  which  is  the  result  of  the  well- 
being  of  the  body;  and  she  told  him  what  ease  and 
deliverance  come  with  sickness;  how  light  she  felt 

333 


Renee  Mauperin 


inwardly  and  what  aspirations  it  brings  with  it  for 
something  outside  ourselves. 

She  spoke,  too,  of  suffering  as  an  ill  which  takes 
our  pride  away,  which  reminds  us  of  our  infirmity, 
which  makes  us  humane,  causes  us  to  feel  with  all 
those  who  suffer,  and  which  instils  charity  into  us. 

"  And  then,  too,"  she  added  with  a  smile,  "  with- 
out it  there  would  be  something  wanting  for  us;  we 
should  never  be  sad,  you  know " 


334 


LXI 

"  MY  dear  fellow,  we  are  very  unhappy,"  said  M. 
Mauperin,  one  evening,  a  few  days  later,  to  Denoisel, 
who  had  just  jumped  down  from  a  hired  trap.  "  I 
had  a  presentiment  you  would  come  to-day,"  he  went 
on.  "  She  is  asleep  now;  you'll  see  her  to-morrow. 
Oh,  you'll  find  her  very  much  changed.  But  you 
must  be  hungry,"  and  he  led  the  way  to  the  dining- 
room,  where  supper  was  being  laid  for  him. 

"  Oh,  M.  Mauperin,"  said  Denoisel,  "  she  is 
young.  At  her  age  something  can  always  be  done." 

M.  Mauperin  put  his  elbows  on  the  table  and 
great  tears  rolled  slowly  from  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  come,  come,  M.  Mauperin;  the  doctors 
haven't  given  her  up;  there's  hope  yet." 

M.  Mauperin  shook  his  head  and  did  not  answer, 
but  his  tears  continued  to  flow. 

"  They  haven't  given  her  up?  " 

"  Yes,  they  have,"  said  M.  Mauperin,  who  could 
not  contain  himself  any  longer,  "  and  I  didn't  want 
to  have  to  tell  you.  One  is  afraid  of  everything,  you 
see,  when  it  comes  to  this  stage.  It  seems  to  me 

335 


Renee  Mauperin 

that  there  are  certain  words  which  would  bring  the 
very  thing  about,  and  to  own  this,  why,  I  fancied  it 
would  kill  my  child.  And  then,  too,  there  might  be 
a  miracle.  Why  shouldn't  there  be?  They  spoke 
of  miracles — the  doctors  did.  Oh,  God!  She  still 
gets  up,  you  know;  it's  a  great  thing,  that  she  can 
get  up.  The  last  two  days  there  has  been  an  improve- 
ment, I  think.  And  then  to  lose  two  in  a  year — it 
would  be  too  terrible.  Oh,  that  would  be  too 
much!  But  there,  eat,  man,  you  are  not  eating  any- 
thing," and  he  put  a  large  piece  of  meat  on  Denoisel's 
plate.  "  Well,  well,  we  must  bear  up  and  be  men; 
that's  all  we  can  do.  What's  the  latest  news  in 
Paris?  " 

"  There  isn't  any;  at  least,  I  don't  know  any.  I've 
come  straight  from  the  Pyrenees.  Mme.  Davarande 
read  me  one  of  your  letters;  but  she  is  far  from 
thinking  her  so  ill." 

"  Have  you  no  news  of  Barousse?  " 

"  Oh,  yes!  I  met  him  on  the  way  to  the  station. 
I  wanted  to  bring  him  with  me,  but  you  know  what 
Barousse  is;  nothing  in  the  world  would  induce  him 
to  leave  Paris  for  a  week.  He  must  take  his  morning 
walk  along  the  quays.  The  idea  of  missing  an  en- 
graving with  its  full  margin " 

"  And  the  Bourjots?  "  asked  M.  Mauperin  with 
an  effort. 

"  They  say  that  Mile.  Bourjot  will  never  marry." 
336 


Renee  Mauperin 


"  Poor  child,  she  loved  him." 

"  As  to  the  mother,  it  is  the  saddest  thing — it 
appears  it's  an  awful  ending — there  are  rumours  of 
strange  things — madness,  in  fact.  There's  some  talk 
of  sending  her  to  a  private  asylum." 


337 


LXII 

"  RENEE,"  said  M.  Mauperin,  on  entering  his 
daughter's  room  the  following  day,  "  there  is  some 
one  downstairs  who  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Some  one? "  And  she  looked  searchingly  at 
her  father.  "  I  know,  it's  Denoisel.  Did  you  write 
to  him?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  You  did  not  ask  to  see  him,  so 
that  I  did  not  know  whether  it  would  give  you  any 
pleasure.  Do  you  mind?  " 

"  Mother,  give  me  my  little  red  shawl — there,  in 
the  drawer,"  she  said,  without  answering  her  father. 
"  I  mustn't  frighten  him,  you  know.  Now  then, 
bring  him  here  quickly,"  she  added,  as  soon  as  her 
shawl  was  tied  at  the  neck  like  a  scarf. 

Denoisel  came  into  the  room,  which  was  impreg- 
nated with  that  odour  peculiar  to  the  young  when 
they  are  ill,  and  which  reminds  one  of  a  faded  bouquet 
and  of  dying  flowers. 

"  It's  very  nice  of  you  to  have  come,"  said  Renee. 
"  Look,  I've  put  this  shawl  on  for  your  benefit;  you 
used  to  like  me  in  it." 

338 


Renee  Mauperin 


Denoisel  stooped  down,  took  her  hands  in  his  and 
kissed  them. 

"  It's  Denoisel,"  said  M.  Mauperin  to  his  wife, 
who  was  seated  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

Mme.  Mauperin  did  not  appear  to  have  heard. 
A  minute  later  she  got  up,  came  across  to  Denoisel, 
kissed  him  in  a  lifeless  sort  of  way,  and  then  went 
back  to  the  dark  corner  where  she  had  been  sitting. 

"  Well,  how  do  you  think  I  look?  I  haven't 
changed  much,  have  I?"  And  then  without  giving 
him  time  to  answer,  she  went  on:  "I  have  a  dreadful 
father  who  will  keep  saying  I  don't  look  well,  and 
who  is  most  obstinate.  It's  no  good  telling  him  I 
am  better;  he  will  have  it  that  I  am  not.  When  I 
am  quite  well  again,  you'll  see — he'll  insist  on  fancy- 
ing that  I  am  still  an  invalid." 

Denoisel  was  looking  at  her  wasted  arm,  just 
above  the  wrist. 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  little  thinner,"  said  Renee,  quickly 
buttoning  her  sleeve,  "  but  that's  nothing;  I  shall 
soon  pick  up  again.  Do  you  remember  our  good 
story  about  that,  papa?  It  made  us  laugh  so.  It 
was  at  a  farmer's  house  at  Tetevuide's — that  dinner, 
you  remember,  don't  you?  Only  imagine  it,  Denoi- 
sel, the  good  fellow  had  been  keeping  some  shrimps 
for  us  for  two  years.  Just  as  we  were  sitting  down 
to  table,  papa  said,  '  Oh,  but  where's  your  daugh- 
ter, Tetevuide?  She  must  dine  with  us.  Isn't  she 

339 


Renee  Mauperin 


here? '  '  Oh,  yes,  sir.'  '  Well,  fetch  her  in,  then,  or 
I  shall  not  touch  the  soup.'  Thereupon  the  father 
went  into  the  next  room,  and  we  heard  talking  and 
crying  going  on  for  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour.  He 
came  back  alone,  finally.  '  She  will  not  come  in/  he 
said,  '  she  says  she's  too  thin.'  But,  papa,"  Renee 
went  on,  suddenly  changing  the  subject,  "  for  the  last 
two  days  mamma  has  never  been  out  of  this  room. 
Now  that  I  have  a  new  nurse,  suppose  you  take  her 
out  for  a  stroll?  " 

"  Ah,  Renee  dear,"  said  Denoisel,  when  they  were 
alone,  "  you  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you 
like  this — to  find  you  so  gay  and  cheerful.  That's  a 
good  sign,  you  know;  you'll  soon  be  better,  I  assure 
you.  And  with  that  good  father  of  yours,  and  your 
poor  mother,  and  your  stupid  old  Denoisel  to  look 
after  you — -for  I'm  going  to  take  up  my  abode  here, 
for  a  time,  with  your  permission." 

"  You,  too,  my  dear  boy?  Now  do  just  look 
at  me!" 

And  she  held  out  her  two  hands  for  him  to  Jielp 
her  to  turn  over,  so  that  she  could  face  him  and  have 
the  daylight  full  on  her. 

"  Can  you  see  me  now?  " 

The  smile  had  left  her  eyes  and  her  lips,  and  all 
animation  had  suddenly  dropped  from  her  face  like 
a  mask. 

340 


Renee  Mauperin 

"  Ah,  yes,"  she  said,  lowering  her  voice,  "  it's  all 
over,  and  I  haven't  long  to  live  now.  Oh,  I  wish  I 
could  die  to-morrow.  I  can't  go  on,  you  know, 
doing  as  I  am  doing.  I  can't  go  on  any  longer 
cheering  them  all  up.  I  have  no  strength  left.  I've 
come  to  the  end  of  it,  and  I  want  to  finish  now.  He 
doesn't  see  me  as  I  am,  does  he?  I  can't  kill  him 
beforehand,  you  know.  When  he  sees  me  laugh,  why 
it  doesn't  matter  about  the  doctors  having  given  me 
up — he  forgets  that — he  doesn't  see  anything,  and  he 
doesn't  remember  anything — so,  you  see,  I  am  obliged 
to  go  on  laughing.  Ah,  for  people  who  can  just  pass 
away  as  they  would  like  to — finish  peacefully,  die 
calmly,  in  a  quiet  place,  with  their  face  to  the  wall — 
why,  that  must  be  so  easy.  It's  nothing  to  pass  away 
like  that.  Well,  anyhow,  the  worst  part  is  over. 
And  now  you  are  here;  and  you'll  help  me  to  be 
brave.  If  I  were  to  give  way,  you  would  be  there 
to  second  me.  And  when — when  I  go,  I  count  on 
you — you'll  stay  with  him  the  first  few  months.  Ah, 
don't  cry,"  she  said;  "you'll  make  me  cry,  too." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Six  months  already  since  Henri's  funeral,"  she 
began  again.  "  We've  only  seen  each  other  once  since 
that  day.  What  a  fearful  turn  I  had,  do  you  re- 
member? " 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  do  remember,"  said  Denoisel. 
"  I've  gone  through  it  all  again,  often  enough.  I 


Renee  Mauperin 

can  see  you  now,  my  poor  child,  enduring  the  most 
horrible  suffering,  and  your  lips  moving  as  though 
you  wanted  to  cry  out,  to  say  something,  and  you 
could  not  utter  a  single  word." 

"  I  could  not  utter  a  single  word,"  said  Renee, 
repeating  Denoisel's  last  words. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  moved  for  a  sec- 
ond as  though  they  were  murmuring  a  prayer.  Then, 
with  such  an  expression  of  happiness  that  Denoisel 
was  surprised,  she  said: 

"Ah,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you!  Both  of  us 
together — you'll  see  how  brave  we  shall  be.  And 
we'll  take  them  all  in  finely — poor  things!  " 


342 


LXIII 

IT  was  stiflingly  hot.  Renee's  windows  were  left 
open  all  the  evening,  and  the  lamp  was  not  lighted, 
for  fear  of  attracting  the  moths,  which  made  her  so 
nervous.  They  were  talking,  until  as  the  daylight 
gradually  faded,  their  words  and  thoughts  were  influ- 
enced by  the  solemnity  of  the  long  hours  of  dreamy 
reverie,  without  light. 

They  all  three  soon  ceased  speaking  at  all,  and 
remained  there  mute,  breathing  in  the  air  and  giving 
themselves  up  to  the  evening  calm.  M.  Mauperin 
was  holding  Renee's  hand  in  his,  and  every  now  and 
then  he  pressed  it  fondly. 

The  gloom  was  gathering  fast,  and  gradually  the 
whole  room  grew  quite  dark.  Lying  full  length  on 
the  sofa,  Renee  herself  disappeared  in  the  indistinct 
whiteness  of  her  dressing-gown.  Presently  nothing 
at  all  could  be  seen,  and  the  room  itself  seemed  all 
one  with  the  sky. 

Renee  began  to  talk  then  in  a  low,  penetrating 
voice.  She  spoke  gently  and  very  beautifully;  her 
words  were  tender,  solemn,  and  touching,  sometimes 

343 


Renee  Mauperin 


sounding  like  the  chant  of  a  pure  conscience,  and 
sometimes  falling  on  the  hearts  around  her  with 
angelic  consolation. 

Her  ideas  became  more  and  more  elevated,  ex- 
cusing and  pardoning  all  things.  At  times  the  things 
she  said  fell  on  the  ear  as  from  a  voice  that  was  far 
away  from  earth,  higher  than  this  life,  and  gradually 
a  sort  of  sacred  awe  born  of  the  solemnity  of  dark- 
ness, -silence,  night,  and  death,  fell  on  the  room  where 
M.  and  Mme.  Mauperin,  and  Denoisel  were  listening 
eagerly  to  all  which  seemed  to  be  already  fluttering 
away  from  the  dying  girl  in  this  voice. 


344 


LXIV 

ON  the  wall-paper  were  bouquets  of  corn,  corn- 
flowers, and  poppies,  and  the  ceiling  was  painted  with 
clouds,  fresh-looking  and  vapoury.  Between  the 
door  and  window  a  carved  wood  praying-chair  with 
a  tapestry  cushion  looked  quite  at  home  in  its  cor- 
ner; above  it,  against  the  light,  was  a  holy-water 
vessel  of  brass-work,  representing  St.  John  baptizing 
Christ.  In  the  opposite  corner,  hanging  on  the  wall 
with  silk  cords,  was  a  small  bracket  with  some  French 
books  leaning  against  each  other,  and  a  few  English 
works  in  cloth  bindings.  In  front  of  the  window, 
which  was  framed  with  creeping  plants  joining  each 
other  over  the  top  and  with  the  leaves  that  hung 
over  bathed  in  light,  was  a  dressing-table,  covered 
with  silk  and  guipure  lace,  with  a  blue  velvet  mirror 
and  silver-mounted  toilet  bottles.  The  shaped  man- 
tel-shelf surmounted  with  a  carved  panel,  had  its  glass 
framed  with  the  same  light  shade  of  velvet  as  that  on 
the  dressing-table.  On  each  side  of  the  glass  were 
miniatures  of  Renee's  mother,  one  when  quite  young 

345 


Renee  Mauperin 

and  wearing  a  string  of  pearls  round  her  neck,  and  a 
daguerrotype  representing  her  much  older.  Above 
this  was  a  portrait  of  her  father  in  his  uniform,  painted 
by  herself,  the  frame  of  which,  leaning  forward, 
caused  the  picture  to  dominate  the  whole  room.  On 
a  rosewood  dinner-wagon,  in  front  of  the  chimney- 
piece,  were  one  or  two  knick-knacks,  the  sick  girl's 
latest  fancies — the  little  jug  and  the  Saxony  bowl  that 
she  had  wanted.  A  little  farther  away,  by  the  second 
window,  all  the  souvenirs  that  Renee  had  collected  in 
her  riding  days — her  hunting  and  shooting  relics, 
riding-canes,  a  Pyrenees  whip,  and  some  stags'  feet 
with  a  card  tied  with  blue  ribbon,  telling  the  day 
and  place  where  the  animal  had  been  run  to  cover. 
Beyond  the  window  was  a  little  writing-desk  which 
had  been  her  father's  at  the  military  school,  and  on  its 
shelf  stood  the  boxes,  baskets,  and  presents  she  had 
received  as  New  Year's  gifts.  The  bed  was  entirely 
draped  with  muslin.  At  the  back  of  it,  and  as  though 
under  the  shelter  of  its  curtains,  all  the  prayer-books 
Renee  had  had  since  her  childhood  were  arranged  on 
an  Algerian  bracket,  from  which  some  chaplets  were*, 
hanging.  Then  came  a  chest  of  drawers  covered 
with  a  hundred  little  nothings:  doll's-house  furni- 
ture, some  glass  ornaments,  halfpenny  jewellery, 
trifles  won  in  lotteries,  even  little  animals  made  of 
bread-crumbs  cooked  in  the  stove  and  with  matches 
for  legs,  a  regular  museum  of  childish  things,  such 

346 


Renee  Mauperin 


as  young  girls  hoard  up  and  treasure  as  reminis- 
cences. The  room  was  bright  and  warm  with  the 
noonday  sun.  Near  the  bed  was  a  little  table  ar- 
ranged as  an  altar,  covered  with  a  white  cloth.  Two 
candles  were  burning  and  flickering  in  the  golden 
daylight. 

Through  the  dead  silence,  broken  only  by  sobs, 
could  be  heard  the  heavy  footsteps  of  a  country  priest 
going  away.  Then  all  was  hushed,  and  the  tears 
which  were  falling  round  the  dying  girl  suddenly 
stopped  as  though  by  a  miracle.  In  a  few  seconds 
all  signs  of  disease  and  the  anxious  look  of  pain  had 
disappeared  from  Renee's  thin  face,  and  in  their  place 
an  ecstatic  beauty,  a  look  of  supreme  deliverance  had 
come,  at  the  sight  of  which  her  father,  her  mother, 
and  her  friend  instinctively  fell  on  their  knees.  A 
rapturous  joy  and  peace  had  descended  upon  her. 
Her  head  sank  gently  back  on  the  pillow  as  though 
she  were  in  a  dream.  Her  eyes,  which  were  wide 
open  and  looking  upward,  seemed  to  be  filled  with 
the  infinite,  and  her  expression  gradually  took  the 
fixity  of  eternal  things.  A  holy  aspiration  seemed  to 
rise  from  her  whole  face.  All  that  remained  of  life — 
one  last  breath,  trembled  on  her  silent  lips,  which 
were  half  open  and  smiling.  Her  face  had  turned 
white.  A  silvery  pallor  lent  a  dull  splendour  to  her 
delicate  skin  and  shapely  forehead.  It  was  as  though 
her  whole  face  were  looking  upon  another  world 

347 


Renee  Mauperin 


than  ours.     Death  was  drawing  near  her  in  the  form 
of  a  great  light. 

It  was  the  transfiguration  of  those  heart  diseases 
which  enshroud  dying  girls  in  all  the  beauty  of  their 
soul  and  then  carry  away  to  Heaven  the  young  faces 
of  their  victims. 


348 


LXV 

PEOPLE  who  travel  in  far  countries  may  have 
come  across,  in  various  cities  or  among  old  ruins — 
one  year  in  Russia,  another  perhaps  in  Egypt — an 
elderly  couple  who  seem  to  be  always  moving  about, 
neither  seeing  nor  even  looking  at  anything.  They 
are  the  Mauperins,  the  poor  heart-broken  father  and 
mother,  who  are  now  quite  alone  in  the  world,  Re- 
nee's  sister  having  died  after  the  birth  of  her  first 
child. 

They  sold  all  they  possessed  and  set  out  to  wander 
round  the  world.  They  no  longer  care  for  anything, 
and  go  about  from  one  country  to  another,  from  one 
hotel  to  the  next,  with  no  interest  whatever  in  life. 
They  are  like  things  which  have  been  uprooted  and 
flung  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven.  They  wander 
about  like  exiles  on  earth,  rushing  away  from  their 
tombs,  but  carrying  their  dead  about  with  them  every- 
where, endeavouring  to  weary  out  their  grief  with  the 
fatigue  of  railway  journeys,  dragging  all  that  is  left 
them  of  life  to  the  very  ends  of  the  earth,  in  the  hope 
of  wearing  it  out  and  so  finishing  with  it. 

349 


THE   PORTRAITS   OF   EDMOND 
AND  JULES   DE  GONCOURT 


THE  PORTRAITS  OF   EDMOND  AND 
JULES   DE  GONCOURT 


LIKE  Dickens,  Theophile 
Gautier,  Merimee,  and 
some  other  literary  celeb- 
rities, the  brothers  Gon- 
court  tried  their  hands  at 
drawing  and  engraving 
before  devoting  them- 
selves to  letters.  Some- 
times in  their  hours  of 
leisure  they  further  made 
essays  in  water-colour 
and  pastel.  Thanks  to 
Philippe  Burty,  Jules  de 
Goncourt's  "  Etchings," 
collected  in  a  volume,  and  some  of  Edmond's  sepia 
and  washed  drawings,  allow  us  to  glean  certain  of 
the  earliest  of  those  records  in  which  the  faithful 
Dioscuri  endeavoured  to  portray  each  other  with  a 
care  both  affectionate  and  touching.  A  very  pretty 
"  Portrait  of  Jules  as  a  child,  in  the  costume  of  a 
Garde  Franchise,"  a  drawing  heightened  with  pas- 
tel, is  described  by  Burty  as  one  of  Edmond's  best 
23  353 


EDMOND   DE   GONCOURT. 

Drawn  from  life  by  Will  Rothen- 
stein,  1894. 


The  Portraits  of 

works,  but  one,  unfortunately,  which  it  was  not 
possible  to  reproduce.  "  In  the  swallow-tail  coat 
of  the  French  Guard,"  says  Burty,  "  starting  for  a 
fancy  dress  ball,  the  brilliance  of  his  eyes  height- 
ened by  the  powder,  his  hand  on  his  sword-guard, 
at  the  nge  of  ten,  plump  and  spirited  as  one  of 


EDMOND   DE  GONCOURT. 

From  an  etching  by  Jules  de  Goncourt,  1860. 

Fragonard's  Cupids."  Here  we  have  the  youngef- 
of  the  Goncourts,  delineated'  with  all  the  subtlety 
of  a  delicate  mannerism.  Edmond  was  eighteen 
at  the  time.  Scarcely  free  of  the  ferule  of  his 
pedagogues,  he  already  looked  at  life  with  that  air 
of  keen  astonishment  which  was  never  to  leave  him, 
and  which  was  to  kindle  in  his  eye  the  sort  of  phos- 

354 


Edmond  and  Jules   de  Goncourt 

phorescent  reflection  that  shone  there  to  his  last 
hour.  It  was  the  elder  and  more  observant  of  the 
two  who  first  attempted  to  represent  his  young 


EDMONU     AND     JULES     DE    GONCOURT. 

From  a  lithograph  by  Gavarni,  1853. 

brother,  the  one  who  was  to  be  the  greater  artist  of 
the  pair,  as  if  the  compact  had  already  been  entered 
upon,  as  if  both  by  tacit  consent  accepted  the  prolific 

355 


The   Portraits  of 

life  in  common,  then  only  at  its  dawn.  A  great  de- 
light to  the  two  brothers  was  their  meeting  with  Ga- 
varni,  at  the  offices  of  L Eclair,  a  paper  founded  to- 
wards the  end  of  1851  by  the  Comte  de  Villedeuil. 
From  that  first  meeting  dated  the  strong  friendship 


JULES   DE   GONCOURT. 

From  a  water-colour  by  Edmond  de  Goncourt,  1857. 

between  the  trio,  a  friendship  that  verged  on  wor> 
ship  on  the  side  of  the  Goncourts,  and  on  tenderness 
on  that  of  Gavarni.  Two  years  later,  on  April  15, 
1853,  in  the  series  called  Messieurs  du  Feuilleton  which 
he  began  in  Paris,  the  master  draughtsman  of  the 
lorette  and  the  prodigal  gave  a  delicious  sketch  of 
Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt.  In  his  Masques  et 

356 


Edmond  and   Jules   de   Goncourt 

Visages,  M.  Alidor  Delzant,  a  bibliophile  very  learned 
in  the  iconography  of  the  Goncourts,  declares  these 
to  be  the  best  and  most  faithful  of  all  the  portraits  of 


PORTRAIT   OF    EDMOND   DE   GONCOURT. 

From  an  etching  from  life  by  Jules  de  Goncourt,  1861. 

the  two  brothers.  We  give  a  reproduction  of  this 
fine  lithograph.  Seated  in  a  box  at  the  theatre  in 
profile  to  the  right,  an  eye-glass  in  his  eye,  Jules,  ap- 
parently intent  on  the  play,  leans  forward  from  be- 
side Edmond,  who  sits  in  a  meditative  attitude,  his 
hands  on  his  knees.  M.  Delzant  compares  these  por- 

357 


The   Portraits  of 

traits  to  those  of  Alfred  and  Tony  Johannot  by  Jean 
Gigoux.  And  do  they  not  also  recall  another  group 
of  two  literary  brothers,  older,  it  is  true,  the  delicate 
faces  of  Paul  and  Alfred  de  Musset  in  the  delicious 
frame  of  the  Musee  Carnavalet?  Gavarni's  drawing 
is  a  perfect  master-piece  of  expression  and  subtlety. 


MEDALLION   OF    EDMOND   AND   JULES   DE  GOXCOURT. 

From  an  engraving  by  Bracquemond,  1875. 

Placed  one  against  the  other,  like  the  antique  medals 
on  which  Castor  and  Pollux  are  graved  in  profile  in 
the  same  circle,  how  admirably  each  of  these  gentle 
faces,  in  which  we  note  more  than  one  analogy,  com- 
pletes the  other!  And  as  we  admire  them,  are  wte 
not  tempted  to  exclaim  :  Here  indeed  are  the  Freres 
Zemganno  of  letters ! 

The  reputation  of  the  two  brothers  increased  pro- 
portionately with  their  works — works  of  the  most 
intense  and  subtle  psychological  research.  Installed 
in  that  apartment  of  the  Rue  Saint  Georges  which 

358 


they  so  soon  transformed  into  a  veritable  museum  of 
prints  and  trinkets,  Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 
prepared  those  brilliant  monographs  of  queens  and 
favourites,  which  have  made  them  the  rare  and 
enchanting  histo- 
rians of  the  most 
licentious  and 
factious  of  cen- 
turies. 

In  1857  Ed- 
mond made  the 
wate  r-colou  r 
drawing  of  "Jules 
smoking  a  Pipe," 
which  was  after- 
ward lithograph- 
ed. His  feet  on 
the  edge  of  the 
mantel  -  piece  in 
front  of  him, 
Jules,  seated  in 
an  arm-chair,  a 
small  pipe  in  his  mouth,  gives  himself  up  to  the  de- 
lights of  the  far  nientc.  This  contemplative  attitude 
was  a  favourite  one  with  him,  and  one  in  which  he 
was  often  discovered  by  visitors.  By  representing 
him  thus,  Edmond  gave  an  additional  force  to  the 
living  memory  that  all  who  knew  his  brother  have 
retained  of  him. 

359 


EDMOND   DE   GONCOURT 
In    1888. 

Portrait  on  wood  in  La  Vie  Populaire. 


The   Portraits   of 


Three  years  later  (1860)  Jules  in  his  turn  made  a 
portrait  of  Edmond,  not  in  the  same  indolent  atti- 
tude, but  also  in  profile,  and  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

This  print  is  one 
of  the  best  in  the 
Burty  album.  We 
know  of  no  fur- 
ther mutual  repre- 
sentations by  the 
brothers ;  with  the 
exception  of  Jules 
de  Gon  c  o  u  r  t's 
etchingof  Edmond 
seated  across  a 
chair,  smoking  a 
cigar,  the  design 
of  which  we  repro- 
duce. But  there 
are  several  fine 

portraits  by  other  hands  of  the  younger  brother, 
the  one  who  was  the  first  to  go,  perforce  abandon- 
ing his  sublime  and  suicidal  task. 

It  was  in  4870  that  Jules  de  Goncourt  died  at  the 
age  of  thirty-nine.  "  It  was  impossible,"  wrote  Paul 
de  Saint- Victor  in  La  Libertt,  "  to  know  and  not  to 
love  this  young  man,  with  his  child's  face,  his  pleas- 
ant, ready  laugh,  his  eyes  sparkling  with,  intellect 
and  purpose.  .  .  .  That  blond  young  head  was  bent 
over  his  work  for  months  at  a  time.  ..."  It  was  the 

360 


EDMOND   DE  GONCOURT. 

From  a  photograph  by  Nadar,  1892. 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 


profile  of  this  "  blond  young  head  "  that  Claudius 
Popelin  traced  for  the  enamel  that  was  set  into  the 
binding  of  the  Necrology,  in  which  Edmond  preserved 
all  the  articles,  letters,  and  tokens  of  sympathy  called 
forth  by  the  irreparable  loss  of  his  beloved  compan- 
ion and  fellow-labourer.  This  medallion,  etched  by 
Abot,  was  prefixed  afterward  to  the  edition  of  Jules 
de  Goncourt's  Letters,  published  by  Charpentier. 
The  profile,  which 
is  reproduced  as 
the  frontispiece 
to  this  edition  of 
Rente  Mauperin,  is 
infinitely  gentle; 
the  emaciated  con- 
tours, the  extraor- 
dinary delicacy  of 
the  features,  betray 
the  intellectual 
dreamer,  his  mind 
intent  on  literary 
questions,  and  we 
understand  M. 
Emile  Zola's  dic- 
tum :  "  Art  killed 
him." 

Prince  Gabrielli  and  Princesse  Mathildealso  made 
certain  furtive  sketches  of  Jules  which  have  since 
been  photographed.  Meaulle  engraved  a  portrait  of 

361 


EDMOND    DE   GONCOURT. 

From  an  etching  by  Bracquemond,  1882. 

(The  original  drawing  is  in  the  Luxembourg 
Museum.) 


The   Portraits   of 


him  on  wood,  and  Varin  made  an  etching  of  him. 
Henceforth,  save  in  Bracquemond's  double  medal- 
lion,  and  in  one  or  two  papers  in  which  studies  of 
him  by  different  hands  appeared,  Edmond  de  Gon- 

court  was  no  longer 
represented  in  com- 
pany with  his  gifted 
brother,  but  always 
alone. 

On  March  15,  1885, 
the  Journal  Illustre 
published  two  por- 
traits of  the  Goncourts 
drawn  by  Franc  Lamy, 
and  on  November  20, 
1886,  the  Cri  du  Peuple 
gave  two  others,  in 
EDMOND  DE  coNcouRT.  connection  with  the 

From  a  photograph  by  Nadar,  1893.       appearance     of     Renee 

Mauperin  at  the  Odeon. 

We  may  also  note  that  the  medallion  of  the  two 
brothers  drawn  and  engraved  by  Bracquemond  for 
the  title-page  of  the  first  edition  of  LArt  du  XVIHeme* 
Stick  appeared  in  1875.  A  delicate  commemorative 
fancy  caused  the  artist  to  surround  the  profile  of 
Jules  with  a  wreath  of  laurel. 

Utterly  crushed  at  first  by  the  sense  of  loneliness 
and  desolation  his  loss  had  created,  Edmond  de  Gon- 
court  was  long  entirely  absorbed  in- memories  of  the 

362 


Edmond   and  Jules   de   Goncourt 

departed.  The  spiritual  presence  of  Jules  filled  the 
house  with  its  mute  and  mournful  sentiment.  The 
heart-broken  survivor  could  find  consolation  and  re- 
lief for  his  pain  only  in  friendship.  Theophile  Gau- 


PORTRAITS  OF   THE    FRERES   DE   GONCOURT. 

Part  of  a  design  by  Willette,  in  Le  Courrier  fran^ais,  1895. 

tier,  Paul  de  Saint- Victor,  Jules  Valles,  the  painter 
De  Nittis,  Burty,  Flaubert,  Renan,  Taine,  and  Theo- 
dore de  Banville  sustained  him  with  their  affection. 
A  band  of  ardent,  active,  and  audacious  young  men, 

363 


The   Portraits  of 


among  whom  M.  fimile  Zola  was  specially  distin- 
guished by  the  research  of  his  formulae,  began  to 
link  him  with  Flaubert,  offering  them  a  common 
worship.  Alphonse  Daudet  (we  have  now  come  to 
the  year  1879)  sketched  the  most  faithful  portrait  of 

him  to  whom  a  whole 
generation  was  soon  to 
give  the  respectful  title 
of  "the  Marshal  of  Let- 
ters": "Edmond  de 
Goncourt  looks  about 
fifty.  His  hair  is  gray, 
a  light  steel  gray ;  his 
air  is  distinguished  and 
genial  ;  he  has  a  tall, 
straight  figure,  and  the 
sharp  nose  of  the  sport- 
ing dog,  like  a  country 
gentleman  keen  for  the 
chase,  and,  on  his  pale 
and  energetic  face,  a 
smile  of  perpetual  sad- 
ness, a  glance  that  sometimes  kindles,  sharp  as  thev 
graver's  needle.  What  determination  in  that  glance, 
what  pain  in  that  smile  ! "  Many  artists  attempted 
to  fix  that  glance  and  that  smile  with  pencil  or 
burin,  but  how  few  were  successful  ! 

One  of  these  few  was  the  sculptor  Alfred  Lenoir, 
in  a  remarkable  work  executed  quite  at  the  end  of 

364 


EDMOND    DE   GONCOURT. 

By  Eugene  Carriere. 
Lithographed  in  1895. 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 


Edmond  de  Goncourt's  life.  His  white  marble  bust 
well  expresses  the  patrician  of  letters,  the  collector, 
the  worshipper  of  all  kinds  of  beauty.  A  voluptu- 
ous thrill  seems  to  stir  the  nostrils,  a  flash  of  sympa- 
thetic observation  to  gleam  from  the  deep  set  eyes. 

The  author  of 
this  bust,  a  work 
elaborated  and 
modelled  after  the 
manner  of  those 
executed  by  Pajou, 
Caffieri,  and  Fal- 
connet  in  the  eight- 
eenth century  (see 
the  reproduction 
at  the  beginning  of 
this  volume),  may 
congratulate  him- 
self on  having  given 
to  Edmond  de  Gon- 
court's friends  the 


EDMOND    DE   GONCOURT. 

By  Eugene  Carriere. 
From  the  cover  of  a  vellum-bound  book. 

most  exquisite  sem- 
blance of  their  lost  comrade. 


Carriere,  on  the  other 
hand,  in  his  superb  lithograph,  where  only  the  eyes 
are  vivid,  and  Will  Rothenstein,  in  a  sketch  from 
nature  which  represents  the  master  with  a  high 
cravat  round  his  throat,  his  chin  resting  on  a  hand 
of  incomparable  form  and  distinction,  have  repro- 
duced, with  great  intensity  and  comprehension, 

365 


The   Portraits  of 

Edmond  de  Goncourt  grown  old,  but  still  robust, 
upright  and  gallant,  a  soldier  of  art  in  whom  the 
creative  faculty  is  by  no  means  exhausted.  Rothen- 
stein's  lithograph  in  particular,  with  the  sort  of  mor- 
Lid  languor  that  pervades  it,  the  mournful  fixity  of 
the  gaze,  the  aristocratic  slenderness  of  the  hands 
and  the  features,  surprises  and  startles  the  spectator. 
"  By  nature  and  by  education,"  says  M.  Paul  Bour- 
get,  "  M.  Ed.  de  Goncourt  possesses  an  intelligence, 
the  overacuteness  of  which  verges  on  disease  in  its 
comprehension  of  infinitesimal  gradations  and  of  the 
infinitely  subtle  creature."  Mr.  Rothenstein  has 
made  this  intelligence  flash  from  every  line  of  his 
drawing. 

Frederic  Regamey,  Bracquemond  (in  the  fine 
drawing  at  the  Luxembourg),  De  Nittis  (in  pastel), 
Raffaelli  (in  an  oil  painting),  Desboutins  (in  an  etch- 
ing), and  finally  M.  Helleu  (in  dry  point),  have 
striven  to  penetrate  and  preserve  the  subtle  psychol- 
ogy of  the  master's  grave,  proud,  and  gentle  counte- 
nance. With  these  distinguished  names  the  iconog- 
raphy of  the  Goncourts  concludes.  Perhaps,  as  a 
light  and  graceful  monument  of  memory,  we  might* 
add  the  fine  drawing  made  by  Willette  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  Edmond  de  Goncourt  banquet,  which  rep- 
resents the  elder  brother  standing,  leaning  against 
the  pedestal  of  his  brother's  statue,  while  at  his  feet 
three  creatures,  symbolizing  the  principal  forms  of 
their  inspiration,  are  grouped,  superb  and  mournful. 

366 


Edmond  and  Jules  de  Gon court 

Who  are  they  ?  No  doubt  Madame  de  Pompadour, 
the  Geisha  of  Japanese  art,  and  finally,  bestial  and  de- 
graded, La  Fille  Elisa — types  that  symbolize  the  most 
salient  aspects  of  that  genius — historic,  assthetic,  and 
fictional — which  will  keep  green  the  precious  memory 
of  Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt. 

OCTAVE  UZANNE. 


EDMOND   DE   GONCOURT. 

Unpublished  portrait  from  life,  by  Georges  Jeannrot 


THE    END 


367 


O     fxy     .      C. 


7^70  / 


